The Taming of Mycroft Holmes
by LadyKailitha
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is the new darling at Baker Academy & garners the attention of both new boy John Watson & teen model Bertie Gruner. Only there's a problem. Sherlock isn't allowed to date, not until older brother Mycroft does. John & new friend Mike Stamford concocts a plan to get Mycroft a boyfriend too. Enter French bad boy, Greg Lestrade. They have a plan to convince him, too.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello and welcome to my latest movie fusion! In which I fuse our beloved Sherlock characters with my favorite romantic films, in this case 10 Things I Hate About You. If you like this sort of thing, may I recommend Strange as Angels, my Just Like Heaven fusion and The Affair of the Star-Crossed Lovers, my An Affair to Remember fusion. I had fun doing them both.**

 **If you seen the movie, there will have to be changes made as Sherlock and Mycroft are very unlikely to get pregnant (the reason the father forbade them dating in the movie.)**

 **Also in my head I think that early on Sherlock would have wanted to fit in at school until he learned that nope, there was no point. They wouldn't like him regardless. So in this story, he's Bianca, the Stratford sister who just wants a chance at a normal life.**

 **And Mycroft as the older, now wiser sibling that has decided to hell with everyone and do what he wants.**

 **John as the army brat Cameron was of course too hard to pass up. Plus it makes him the center in which everything starts. Which is the point of the original stories. ;)**

 **And then it came down to Patrick Verona. The no-nonsense bad boy Australian who becomes the foil for Kat in the movie. There are two choices that I could go with, Anthea or Greg. But considering we see so little of Anthea, I thought she better fit the role of the best friend Mandella and Greg as Patrick would be just divine. (I might admit to the epicly long Give Me a Label by IBegtoDreamandDiffer influencing my decision a bit. Maybe. A lot.)  
**

 **You know, trying to find a man of color in either Sherlock or ACD canon is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Freaking hell. But for the character of the English teacher Mr Morgan to work, he had to be a person of color and Sally was already snapped up to play the role of Chasity, Bianca's friend. And then I hit on it. Corporal Lyons from THoB. So the Rastas have been swapped for Otakus.**

 **Actually, find people to replace the teachers and counselors were hard all around. I finally set Mrs Hudson as Miss Perky, the inappropriate school counselor, and Lady Smallwood as the soccer coach Mr Chapman.**

 **Mike Stamford was easy, I didn't even have change the name of the character from the movie, it being Michael. ;) And we know that Mike would do anything to help John get Sherlock. LOL!**

 **And lastly the role of Joey, the stuck up male model wannabe who is chasing the younger Stratford sister. I scoured the cast lists of the 13 episodes of Sherlock that would fit everything that happens with this character (no spoilers, I promise) and came up empty handed. So I went digging into ACD canon. And oh boy did I find a real dick. Baron Adelbert Gruner from The Illustrious Client. So we have for this story, Bertie Gruner.**

 ** **And as with all fusions I must remind you that I have to combine two characters (the Sherlock character and the movie character) so OF COURSE THEY WOULDN'T ACT LIKE THAT! THEY'RE TWO PEOPLE! Sorry about that. I feel it had to be said. Because every time I do one of these that's the criticism I always get.****

 **Thanks, of course to my beta Old Ping Hai. Seriously, guys. I would never get anything done without her.**

* * *

When John walked into the office, he wasn't sure what to make of it. Sitting at the desk behind a placard stating her name was Mrs Hudson and a fancy, new laptop was an older woman with glasses, typing away and muttering something about members. And John really, really hoped she was talking about about a club and not what he thought it was.

She finally looked up from her laptop. "John Watson, is it?"

"Yes, ma'am," John replied.

She grabbed his file and began flipping through it. "Nine schools in ten years, an army brat, eh?"

"Yes, ma'am, my father is‒" he began, but she cut him off with a wave her hand.

Handing him a yellow piece of paper and she said, "That's your schedule, now fuck off."

John looked around him, "Am I in the right office?" he asked, wondering about her language.

"Not anymore you're not," Mrs Hudson huffed. "Look, I have deviants to see and a novel to write, so shoo!"

John stood up in a daze and walked out into the hall, and as he did so he brushed past a tough-looking bloke in a leather jacket and plain black backpack. John murmured his apology but the guy ignored him.

John shrugged it off, he had better things to do than worry about this guy now. If he turned out to be the school bully he'd know to watch out for him, but until then he had to find out where his first class was.

He struck out into the hall and was immediately greeted by this stocky kid with wire-rim glasses and a friendly smile.

"Hello, I'm Mike Stamford," he greeted John with a handshake. "They asked me to show you around."

John was impressed, "Wow, usually they send like the biggest nerd to show me around."

Just then a group of kids passed by calling out, "Nerd!"

Mike turned back to John and flashed him a grin. "Uh, just ignore them."

John looked mildly dubious but followed Mike out the door anyway.

"So we have all sorts here at Baker Street Academy," Mike began. "Over there we have the posh snobs."

He pointed to a group of well-dressed young men.

John looked them over, "They can't be that bad."

Mike raised an eyebrow, "Watch this. Hey, guys!"

"Piss off!"

John blinked and allowed Mike to lead him on. He continued to point out groups while John nodded.

"And then we have the Otakus," Mike said pointing to another group of students. "They like to think they're Japanese and know everything about it, but mostly‒"

"They're in it for the hentai?"John asked.

Mike scoffed but agreed. "Pretty much."

He stopped by a table and tried to be friendly, but was driven away by the extremely cold shoulder he got from them.

"Wow, who are they?" John asked.

"The Future Doctors Association, I used to be their god," Mike replied and John rolled his eyes. Mike shrugged.

"So what happened?" John asked, mostly because Mike wanted to tell him and not because he was actually interested.

"Sarah Sawyer spread it around I buy my clothes from Selby's instead of Selfridges."

John winced. He could see why that might cause some friction in a group like that. "Tossers."

Mike nodded. "Don't worry, I'll get my revenge."

Just then a dark-haired boy walked past talking to a black girl. "And what group do they belong in?" John asked with a low whistle.

"The 'never going breathe the same air as us' group," Mike snorted. "That, my friend, is Sherlock Holmes and Sally Donovan. And he's not allowed to date."

"What?" John asked. "Why not?"

"His mum is a bit of a nutter," Mike explained. "But seriously, mate. Forget about either one. It is not going to happen."

"Come on, Mike," John implored his new friend. "There must be something."

"He is looking for a French tutor," Mike admitted.

"That's perfect," John exclaimed.

"Why? Do you speak French?" Mike asked.

"Not a word, but I'm a very fast learner?"

Mike groaned.

* * *

Bertie Gruner was taller than average, with classic good looks and an arrogance matched only by his self-absorption. He and his best friend, Jim Moriarty, watched as the new sophomores walked by.

"Mhmm," Jim muttered as Sherlock and Sally walked by. "Now there is something special." He indicted Sherlock with his chin.

Bertie looked Sherlock up and down. "Indeed."

"I bet he's still a virgin," Jim replied.

"I can tap that," Bertie claimed.

Jim laughed. "Like hell you can. Care for a gentleman's wager?"

Bertie ran his tongue over his bottom lip. "Money I have, this I'll do for pleasure."

Jim smirked.

* * *

Greg looked at the scrawny kid who had squeezed past him as he walked into Mrs Hudson's office and immediately pegged him for the new kid. As long as he stayed out of Greg's way, he didn't really care.

"Welcome back, Mr Lestrade," Mrs Hudson said, standing up. "I see we're making these visits of yours weekly."

Greg smiled. "Only so we can have these moments together. You want me to hit the lights?"

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes, "Nice try, you frog. I understand that you flashed yourself in the dining hall today."

Greg rolled his eyes. "It was a joke. I was playing with the server and waved a bratwurst around."

Mrs Hudson laughed. "Bratwurst? Aren't we the optimist? Next time, keep it in your pants. Now, shoo!"

Greg rolled his eyes again and stormed out.

* * *

John watched in awe as Sherlock and Sally walked past him and Mike.

Mike elbowed his new friend hard in the ribs.

"When are you going to learn that people of that quality will never to talk to the likes of us?"

John turned to him, "Come on, you don't think that a guy like Sherlock wouldn't be interested in me?"

"No, I don't," Mike ground out. "Look, he's like the stars. You can love them, but they won't love you back."

John sighed and then straightened his shoulders, "No, you're wrong. And I'm going to prove it to you."

Sally and Sherlock were talking about their English assignment and didn't know that they were being discussed.

Suddenly Bertie stepped out in front of them.

"Hello, gorgeous," he said to both of them.

Sally and Sherlock blushed.

"Hey," Sally said.

"Hello, Bertie," Sherlock said, lifting his chin.

"Hey, I just got the latest Jaguar, and wondered if you lovelies would like a ride after school," Bertie suggested. "It's a convertible."

Sally and Sherlock shared a glance.

"Hell, yes," Sherlock replied for both of them.

* * *

Mr Lyons stood in front of his English class with his arms crossed in front of chest. "All right, which of you lot did your reading for the weekend?"

There was some grumbling. "So what did you all think of 'The Sun Also Rises'?"

Mary Morstan said from the back, "It was so romantic!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Oh, for heaven's sake! Hemmingway was a drunk narcissist who squandered his life trying to get a leg up on Picasso's leavings."

Then the most popular boy in school, Bertie Gruner, spoke up, "As opposed to a bitter, self-righteous tosser who has no friends?"

Mr Lyons rolled his eyes. "Shut it, maggot."

"Can't we get at least some intelligent authors?" Mycroft complained. "Hell, at this point I'd take Jane Austen over Ernest Hemmingway."

But before Mr Lyons could answer, Greg walked in, "What did I miss?"

"Just our intelligence being assaulted by meaningless drivel," Mycroft snarked back.

Greg looked around the class for a moment and said as he walked back out of the door, "Good."

"Wait!" Mr Lyons shouted but it was too late, Greg had already gone.

"Mr Lyons, could we all agree that Mycroft should take his Aderal _before_ he comes to class?" Bertie sneered.

"One day, Mr Gruner, someone is going to bitch-slap you," Mr Lyons replied. "And I won't do a thing to stop it." He turned back to Mycroft. "And while we're on the subject of 'intelligent' writers, perhaps we should ask why there isn't _any_ one of color on your reading list!"

"Sansei shite!" the Otokus said from the back.

"And don't get me started on you lot!" Mr Lyon barked and the Otokus subsided into a low murmur.

"Anything else?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes," Mr Lyons replied, "go to the office, I can't deal with you today."

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked. "Mr Lyons‒"

"Now!" Mr Lyons interrupted.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and grabbed his bookbag, making sure to "accidentally" clip Bertie on the way out.

* * *

Mrs Hudson sat at her laptop and chewed on her lip. She was trying to find the right word. "Miss Hooper!"

The mousy school secretary poked her head into Mrs Hudson's office. "Yes, ma'am?"

"What's another word for engorged?"

Molly blinked. "I'll look it up." She slinked off and Mrs Hudson smiled and went back to her novel.

"Tumescent," Mycroft muttered as walked into her office.

Mrs Hudson cocked her head to the side and smiled, "Yes, I like that."

She added to her paragraph, then looked up at Mycroft. "Terrorizing Mr Lyons's class again, are we?"

"I don't believe that voicing one's opinion can be classified as a terrorist action," Mycroft argued.

"Just like you didn't terrorize Charles Magnusson?" Mrs Hudson asked. "His testicle removal went very well, if you're interested."

Mycroft smirked. "I firmly believe he kicked himself in the bullocks."

Mrs Hudson glared at him.

"Fine," Mycroft said standing up. "I'll let you get back to Reginald's quivering shaft."

Mrs Hudson repeated the words a couple times as Mycroft stormed out the door. Then she added those words to her page as well.

* * *

John and Mike got out of class at the end of the day and Mike hopped on his Vespa.

"See you tomorrow, John," Mike said, strapping on his helmet. Just he was about to reverse, a red car came screeching behind him.

"Get your head out of your arse, and then drive, Stamford!" Mycroft screamed and backed out of the parking lot.

John trotted up to Mike, "Hey, you okay?"

Mike scoffed. "I'm fine, that was your new beloved's older brother, Mycroft Holmes. The Shrew of Baker Academy."

John raised his eyebrows. "Him?"

"Yep," Mike said. He shook his head and turned the throttle.

Just as Mycroft was about to exit the parking lot, he spotted Sherlock and Sally in the back of Bertie's sports car.

He wrinkled his nose and tore out of there in a squeal of rubber.

Mike, who was also turning at the same time, had to swerve out of Mycroft's way to avoid being hit. Immediately, Mike lost control and began careening down the slope that led to the football field. When the Vespa leveled out, he was able to skid to a stop. He stood up to see that the _entire_ school was watching him. He raised his hands in the air to show he was okay and the crowd erupted into cheers.

John shook his head. This school was going to be interesting, to say the least. And if he swung this right, he'd even get a boyfriend out of the deal.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello! Anybody there? I hope so. That was not how I wanted this to go, I assure you. So first I can't find a reliable source to the movie. Which meant I had to wait until I had the money to buy it. And after winning a gift card from my work's costume contest (I was the Queen of Hearts), I was able to buy the DVD. And then it took Amazon a WEEK to get it to me. I even have Prime. Grrr. And then when I finally have the movie in hand, I get hella sick. Like going to the doctor, staying home several days from work, losing my voice sick. And was down for three weeks. After all that I was able to watch the movie and finish this chapter. I just hope it was worth the wait.**

* * *

Mycroft was doing his homework in the front room, headphones blaring his favorite band. The front door opened, and his mother walked in carrying the mail.

"Afternoon, Mycroft," Mummy murmured.

Mycroft pulled out his left earbud and smiled up at his mother.

"You make anyone cry today?" she asked fondly, bending over to kiss his cheek.

"No," he replied cheerfully, "but it's only half past four."

"That's my boy," Mummy beamed, going back to to the mail.

The front door opened and Sherlock came in. He paused to give her a kiss on the cheek.

"Hello, Mummy," he said sweetly.

"Hello, love," she replied absently as she came across a rather large envelope. "Oxford?"

Mycroft jumped up and snatched it out of her hands. He ripped it open and began jumping up and down. "I got in!" he squealed.

"Darling," Mummy said, warningly. "I thought we decided on Cambridge."

Mycroft's spine stiffened. "No, Mummy that's where you decided I was going to go."

"But your name has been on the books at Cambridge since you were born. At Oxford, they won't care that you're a Holmes," Mummy pleaded.

"Hence the appeal," Mycroft snapped. "Besides, don't you want to know who took Sherlock home from school?"

"Now, don't go changing the subject‒" she turned to Sherlock, who was biting on his lower lip. "Wait, who took you home?"

"Now, Mummy, it was just a boy..." Sherlock replied. He glared at Mycroft, who stuck out his tongue at him behind their mother's back.

"Just a boy..." Mummy said, sitting down as if she were going to faint. "Love, I understand that with both you and Mycroft being homosexual, that you can't get a girl pregnant. But there are other things; drugs, diseases, and it's really not worth it. What are the two rules of this household?"

Mycroft smiled.

"No dating until we graduate?" Sherlock questioned.

"And the second one is 'no dating until you graduate'! This is not up for negotiation. When you graduate, you may date, but not before." Mummy draped her hand over her eyes dramatically. "I spend all my days dealing with troubled teens, and I won't have my boys become one of them."

"You could always go back to maths," Mycroft snarked, "instead of your social work."

She moved her hand enough to glare at her eldest.

"Mummy," Sherlock began slowly, "I'm pretty sure dating in sixth form isn't the crisis you're making it out to be, besides I'm sixteen. You know, the age of majority in England?"

Mummy shot up from her chair like a cork popping from a bottle of wine. "Be that as that may, young man. You are under my roof, and you will do as I say."

Sherlock flopped next Mycroft, looking dejected.

"I just want a normal life," Sherlock whined. "And dating is part of that. Everyone dates."

Mummy scoffed, "That's not true, your brother doesn't. And why is that?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Have you _seen_ the boys at that school? Horrid, unwashed masses."

Sherlock sneered, "And just what planet are you from, planet 'weirdo'?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes again, "As opposed to planet 'look-at-me, look-at-me'?"

Mummy began rubbing her temples. She turned around with a smile on her face, "All right, new rule."

Both Mycroft and Sherlock sat up, looking worried.

"Sherlock can date‒" she began, but was cut off by Sherlock's cheerful giggling and Mycroft's outraged objections. "I'm not finished!"

Both boys snapped their mouths shut.

"Sherlock can date, when Mycroft does," she said triumphantly.

"Have you seen him?" Sherlock protested. "He'll never date!"

Mummy managed to look even more smug. "Even better. Yes, it's brilliant, and I can sleep soundly knowing that my two boys are safe."

She walked off, but she paused, "Mycroft darling, we aren't done talking about Oxford."

Mycroft stormed off and ran up the stairs, but Sherlock was fast on his heels.

"Can't you convince some wanker to take you out to the cinema for two seconds so that I can have a normal life?"

"No," Mycroft growled and stormed off to his room.

* * *

Sherlock leaned back into his chair and folded his arms as he watched John skim through the French grammar book.

"Right," John said, rubbing his eyebrow, "so generally we start with pronunciation."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up, "Boring! Something else, please!"

John licked his lower lip and looked at Sherlock sidelong. "Well, I was thinking maybe we could go to a French restaurant or evening boating on the Thames. I know your mum says that you can't date, but I thought if it was for class‒"

"Are you asking me out, James?" Sherlock began, a calculating smile on his face.

"Actually, it's John," John replied, "and yeah I am."

"You know, Jack..."

"John," John interrupted but Sherlock waved him off.

"Mummy came up with a new rule," Sherlock purred, his voice low and smooth. "I can date when my brother does."

"Really?" John asked, excited.

Sherlock threw himself back against his chair and folded his arms again. "Except for one very major problem: my brother is an angry, overbearing twat with absolutely no social skills."

John winced, "Yeah, I've heard." He scratched his eyebrow for a minute. "What if I found someone who would date Mycroft?"

Sherlock leaned forward and said softly, "You'd do that for me?"

John's heart began to pound against his chest and smiled at him, "Yeah, sure."

Sherlock just grinned.

* * *

Mike sighed and suppressed the urge to rub his temples. Why was he even doing this? He didn't owe John anything. Sherlock was just another bloke who looked down on people like him. But then he looked over at his new friend's face and folded like a house of cards.

John had the most hopeful expression Mike had ever seen on another person. Right, that's why he was doing this, because against all odds John actually liked Sherlock. And there was of course the fact that John had befriended Mike after he had been kicked out of Future Doctors. Not that John knew him before then, but it was still a nice gesture.

"Right in here," Mike said, opening the door to a storage closet.

"Isn't that a little‒" John waved his hand helplessly, trying to find the right words.

"Look," Mike barked, losing his patience a little, "it was here or the boy's locker room."

John wrinkled his nose. "Right."

They stepped inside and faced four boys who were outcasts of the outcasts, the bottom of the barrel.

A goth, a nerd, a geek, and a stoner.

The goth boy was up first.

"Right," Mike began, "so we are looking for a bloke who will date Mycroft Holmes."

The goth, who was pale to begin with, blanched further, "Look, I know we goths have reputation for courting death, but mate, I ain't suicidal."

The nerd merely screamed, "No!" and bolted back to the others when asked about dating Mycroft.

The geek started laughing.

"Um," John said, "we're not joking."

But the kid just kept laughing and was replaced by the stoner.

His answer was the worst in John's opinion.

"I would only date Mycroft Holmes if we were the last people on earth and there were no sheep. Are there sheep?"

John and Mike shared horrified glances before they shook their heads.

* * *

As they were walking out of the closet, John threw his arms in the air.

"There must be someone in this school that would date Mycroft Holmes," he lamented.

He looked across the hall and smiled. Mike followed his gaze.

"Oh no," Mike protested. "There is no way."

"What?" John argued. "He'd be perfect."

"He once sold his liver on the black market for a Triumph," Mike argued.

Across the hall, Greg Lestrade was playing with his lighter, lighting it and putting it out with the tips of his fingers. He stared back at John.

The blond started to walk over, but a single glare from Greg made John turn around. "Maybe another time," he said to Mike, who nodded sagely.

* * *

John walked up to Greg, his French workbook in hand. But before he could get a word out, Greg pulled a knife from his pocket and stabbed it into the French book, burying the blade halfway to the hilt. It didn't pierce the book all the way, but John stared down at the deadly weapon protruding from his homework and gulped.

As he backed away Greg pulled the knife out, causing John to stumble.

"Right, okay," John mumbled and then turned to scurry away.

* * *

John slumped next to Mike at lunch and hit his head on the table. "It's hopeless."

"We just need to offer him some incentive," Mike replied. "We'd pay him."

John just thudded his head on the table a few more times. "I don't have that kind of money. If I asked my dad for it, I'd be belted within an inch of my life."

Mike pounded on on John's shoulder, "What we need is a sponsor. Someone who is stupid and rich. Someone we can trick into paying Greg for us."

John raised his head and glared at his friend, "No one is that stupid."

Mike just laughed. "Actually, I know just the person."

* * *

Mike walked up to the table that Bertie was sitting at with all his friends.

"Hello," he began with a tentative smile.

"Beat it, tosser," Bertie snapped.

Mike continued undaunted. "Actually, I have a proposition for you."

Bertie stood up and towered over Mike, "What part of 'beat it' did you not understand?"

Mike's smile became more confident, "Oh, I think you might want to hear what I have to say."

Jim sneered, "And why would he want to do that?"

"Because I know something you don't," Mike replied with a shrug.

Jim and Bertie shared an amused glance. Bertie tilted his head up, "What kind of information would you have that I would be remotely interested in?"

"I happen to know that Sherlock Holmes is allowed to date provided his brother, Mycroft, does," Mike said, triumphantly.

This time the look between Bertie and Jim was shocked.

"All right," Bertie said slowly. "I'm listening."

"The only way that _anyone_ is going to date Mycroft Holmes is if someone pays them. And I happen to have a bloke in mind," Mike explained.

Bertie put his hands in his pockets and thrust his chin at Mike, "And what do you get out of this?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Mike raised one shoulder in a half shrug, "If I say 'hi' to you in the halls..."

Bertie nodded, "I say 'hi' back and you're cool by association."

"I get it," Jim agreed.

"So do we have deal?" Mike pressed.

Bertie and Mike shook hands and sealed the deal.

"Just out of curiosity, who is this bloke?" Jim asked.

"Greg Lestrade," Mike replied.

"I heard he ate a live raven once," Bertie said.

"Everything but the beak and feet," Mike agreed.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey guys, miss me?**

 **I missed you all. But I have been so sick the last couple of months that it hurt to write. Hell, it hurt to work but I've got bills to pay and mouths to feed, so that came first.**

 **But here we have a shiny new chapter to show for it all. I hope it's worth the wait.**

* * *

Bertie strolled up to Greg with all the confidence of the perpetually dense. Brazen and without care.

Greg was leaning up against the back wall behind the mess hall, having a cigarette.

"You're Greg Lestrade, right?" Bertie asked.

Greg thought about ignoring the other boy, but if school had taught him anything, it was that ignoring people like Bertie Gruner only made them more persistent.

"What's it to you?" he asked instead, flicking away the butt.

"You see, I want to take out Sherlock Holmes, but there is the little problem of he can't date until his brother does," Bertie explained with a suave grin.

Greg raised a skeptical eyebrow, "And what does that have to do with me?"

Bertie shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Mycroft is a twat and I'm willing to pay you to date him."

Greg stood up and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He flipped open the box and pulled out another as Bertie watched in annoyance.

"Uh, no," Greg replied. He lit up the cigarette and took a long drag.

Bertie, however, was unperturbed and pulled out £20. He held it out to Greg.

Greg blinked. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly," Bertie murmured menacingly.

Greg knew it was time to take a different tactic. "Right, so say I take him to the cinema. He seems like a cinema kind of guy, right?" He clapped Bertie on the shoulder, "That's £30 off the bat, then he'll want a coke and Maltsers, that's another £30. And then dinner to talk about how horrible the show was, which will be at _least_ £40. That's a £100 easy."

Greg smiled, sure in his knowledge that Bertie would tell him to fuck off.

Bertie grimaced at the amount, but while he wanted to haggle the price down, he knew that Greg had a point and if he wanted to win that bet with Jim, he was gonna have to pony up. So he dug into his wallet and pulled out the other £80.

He handed it to Greg and then turned on his heel and walked off, leaving behind a stunned and completely poleaxed Greg, who looked at the £100 in his hand and shoved it in his pocket. Now to figure out how to ask a bloke out. He ran his fingers over his face and sighed. This was his literal worst nightmare. Despite how he looked, he had never gone out with anyone before. He just didn't have the time before...and now? Now he's about to ask the most difficult person in the whole school out on a date. He was in hell.

* * *

It took him a couple of days to figure out Mycroft's schedule. Well, if he was honest, he mainly got himself into trouble and then peeked at the school files while he was waiting for Mrs Hudson to let him in. Apparently her story was going well, because it took her a half hour to open her door. Which had given him plenty of time to get Mycroft's schedule and look it over. Greg sighed as one particular class stood out to him.

"Of course he does," Greg cursed softly before putting the schedule back. Miss Hooper, the school secretary, almost caught him, twice, but Greg would ask her to get him something and she would wander off. Once he was actually in Mrs Hudson's office he completely tuned her out. He just needed to get out of here and find Mycroft.

* * *

Greg watched Mycroft from the stable doors, leaning up against the frame with his shoulder, hands in his pockets, legs crossed at the ankles. Mycroft was brushing and saddling his polo horse and Greg was itching for a cigarette bad.

Of course, he wasn't about to light one up here. He was a rebel, not a mass animal killer. One stray spark from his cig and the whole stable could go up in flames. And then he _really_ wouldn't be able to ask Mycroft out and he'd have to give the money back to Bertie. So here he was, about to do the most dangerous thing in the world (ask Mycroft Holmes out on a date) and he couldn't smoke.

Mycroft was so absorbed in his task of brushing down his horse that it took him a few minutes to notice the boy watching him. He rolled his eyes and squared his shoulders. He turned to face Greg, mask firmly in place.

"What are you doing here, Lestrade?" Mycroft asked, coldly.

Greg just grinned and with a gentle push, straightened himself up to walk toward Mycroft's stall. He petted the horse's nose softly.

"Well, hello, gorgeous," Greg murmured and then turned to look Mycroft up and down. "You aren't half bad, either."

Mycroft growled, "Aren't you a little far from your regular haunts?"

Greg looked around at the other stalls and shrugged, "I know my way around horses."

Mycroft sneered, "As what? A stablehand?"

Greg opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get words out, Prof Smallwood walked past. The riding instructor was a beautiful woman just past her prime. She was as gracious as she was graceful. She was in riding gear, her helmet tucked carelessly under one arm, and her grey hair flew about in gentle waves, suggesting that she had just pulled off her helmet.

"Lestrade!" she greeted cheerfully. "Have you finally come to your senses and decided to join the team after all?"

Mycroft's jaw dropped.

"Sorry, Professor, maybe next year," Greg said with a cough.

She swatted at him playfully, "You'll be gone by next year. I so hoped that I would be able to see France's greatest seat in a quarter of a century."

"I'll talk to my mum, but no promises," Greg hedged. He looked down at his feet, hoping she would drop the issue. He didn't want it getting out why he didn't ride anymore.

She squeezed his arm in sympathy and then strolled out of the stable.

Greg coughed again and after a sigh of relief then turned on his brightest smile. "Go out with me?"

Mycroft leapt on his horse with such grace that Greg let out an appreciative hum.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and kicked his horse into motion, leaving Greg behind without so much as a word or backward glance.

Greg turned to one of the horses in a nearby stall, "That could have gone better."

The horse neighed and shook his mane.

"Well, you're no help," Greg groused.

The horse neighed in agreement.

* * *

Music was Mycroft's one escape. He could go into his head and let the music wash over him, allowing all the doubts, fears, and anxieties empty out of him, if only for a few moments. His favorite thing to do was go with Anthea on Saturdays to the local music shop and wander around their old vinyl records and stare longingly at the guitars on their walls.

Music was his therapy and he certainly needed it after the week he had. It was like his whole world had been turned upside down, like he was on a non-stop roller coaster and he didn't know how to get off.

Mycroft came out of the music shop to put his purchase into his car and saw Greg Lestrade leaning up against it, smoking.

"Are you following me?" Mycroft asked with a sneer, gripping the records tight.

Greg shook his head. "I was at the cafe over there and saw your car, so I thought that I would stop by and say 'hi'," he explained, pointing across the street to the cafe which had his Triumph parked out front.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and said dryly, "Hello."

"Nice car, a bit beaten up but still a great car," Greg replied after taking a long drag of his cigarette.

Mycroft glared at him, hoping he would take the hint to go away. "It does its job."

Greg smiled and flicked his cigarette. He stood up and shoved his hands in his jeans' pockets. "You're not very talkative, are you?"

Mycroft huffed, "I can converse freely about any number of subjects, but cars _aren't_ one of them."

Greg smiled, "Fair enough, but I do something that we could talk about‒"

Just then Bertie roared up to the shop in his shiny new Jag, and parked directly behind Mycroft's old beater.

"Hey, you arrogant toe-rag, you parked behind my car!" Mycroft growled.

Anthea walked out of the shop and looked around nervously, "Uh, do I even want to know?"

Mycroft shook his head, "Get in the car."

Anthea nodded and quickly got in on the passenger side. Mycroft yanked open the driver side door and Greg had to leap out of the way to avoid getting hit. Mycroft slid into the driver's seat and turned on the engine.

Bertie walked up to his car and leaned in close, "Good luck getting out, Mikey!" He gave an ironic salute and turned to go into the shop.

Greg knew what was going to happen the second he saw the look of disgust on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft shifted the car into reverse and gunned it, slamming his vehicle straight into the Jaguar.

"My car!" Bertie screamed. "What the hell did you do to my car?"

Mycroft shared a smirk with Anthea before looking up at Bertie, "Oops!"

Anthea and Greg burst out laughing and Greg was still laughing when Mycroft and Anthea had drove off.

Bertie turned to Greg and hissed, "Watching your boyfriend hit my car does _not_ count as date, Lestrade."

He looked at his once beautiful car and lamented, "My car! Now what am I going to do?"

Greg patted his shoulder, "Have fun taking the tube!"

* * *

Mycroft was lying on his bed listening to his music and reading, when he heard quite clearly, "'Oops'?"

Mycroft pulled down the book and saw his mother standing above him, looking furious. He scrambled to sit up and greeted cheerfully, "Hello, Mummy."

"My insurance doesn't cover teenage angst, Myc!"

Mycroft just rolled his eyes and waved off her concern, "Tell them I had a seizure or something. "

Mummy's face clouded over, "Is this you punishing me for Oxford?"

Mycroft stood up and balled his hands into fists, "Aren't you just punishing me for Father leaving?"

"You leave him out of this!" Mummy shrieked.

"I'm sorry he left, Mummy! But him being being gay didn't turn his sons gay, too!"

"What!" Mummy bellowed.

And of course at this moment Sherlock chose to interrupt with a shrill, "Did you really crash into Bertie's car?"

"Yes," Mycroft said over their mother's shoulder, quite proudly. "Looks like you'll have to take the Tube to school for a while." He grabbed his keys, wallet, and jacket and made for the stairs.

"Where do you think you're going?" she hissed just as Sherlock snarled, "Can't you just be normal?"

Mycroft didn't even bother to answer Mummy's question and instead turned to Sherlock. "No, and you shouldn't want to be either!"

He sailed down the stairs and he could hear his mother say, "We aren't done talking about Oxford!"

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut and stormed out the house. He slammed the door behind him and drove off into the night, cursing everyone and anyone.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello, and happy early Valentine's Day. I was going to try and get another Valentine's Day story out like I did last year, but the flu is seriously kicking my ass. I swear I have gotten three different strains of the damn thing and all at the most inconvenient times. But at least I'll have an idea for next year.**

 **So a shiny, new chapter of this story will have to do.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Mike and John knew they were going to have to take matters into their own hands if Greg continued to fail at wooing Mycroft, so they hatched a plan. After the incident at the music shop, Greg had completely stalled out.

They strolled up to him at lunch and sat down at his table. Greg looked up at them in shock. No one sat at his table, ever.

"Fuck off," he growled.

Mike and John shared a glance. "Um, we have a proposition for you," John muttered.

"Oh hell no," Greg snapped. "The last deal I made has made my life a living nightmare."

"We know," Mike agreed. "That's why we're here. We want to help you date Mycroft Holmes."

Greg looked between them and then turned to Mike, "Why?"

"John here," Mike pointed to John, "would like to date Sherlock Holmes, but seeing as his brother is a bit of a tough nut to crack, we thought we could lend a hand," he explained.

"What is with this bloke? Does he have a beer-flavored cock or something?" Greg asked.

"What?" John squeaked in outrage. "No, no, he most certainly does not."

The resulting tension between John and Greg filled the room, and Mike jumped between them before John got himself killed.

"I'm not interested in your help," Greg growled. "Bertie Gruner can plough whoever he wants."

This time John's outrage was more of a roar than a squeak, "Hey, buddy. There will be no ploughing."

"Anyway," Mike said with a cough, "we want to help you woo Mycroft."

"And how in the hell are you going to do that?" Greg asked. These two didn't look like they shared a single brain cell between them.

"I tutor Sherlock in French, and I could ask him what kind of things Mycroft likes and pass them on you."

Greg's head dropped back and he rolled his eyes. "Enculer!"

Mike and John shared a glance, but ultimately shrugged, not knowing what he had said.

"Look, I'll be at the Criterion Bar most nights, so if you guys got anything, come see me there," Greg told them, and they both nodded.

* * *

Mike watched as Sarah passed around fliers to her "tasteful" cheese tasting. Like that wasn't the most horrible pun in existence. He waited until she had a small handful left and bumped into her, sending her remaining fliers to the ground. He murmured apologies and straightened up.

"You didn't take one, did you, Stamford?" Sarah asked suspiciously.

Mike held up his hands to show that they were empty. "Why would I want one of your stupid invitations?"

"You're up to something," she said accusingly.

"I told you I'd make you regret what you did to me, Sarah," Mike sneered. "It shouldn't matter where someone gets their clothes. Buying at a high-end store doesn't make someone a better doctor. Compassion does."

Mike turned on his heel and strode off.

Sarah glared at him for a moment before returning to handing out the fliers.

Mike rounded the corner and was greeted by a waiting John, who had one of the fliers clutched in his fists.

"Let's do this," John muttered.

An hour later and a hundred copies in hand, Mike and John let loose the new fliers saying that Sarah's party was now a BYOB and that it would be the place to be.

The best part about the whole thing is that Sarah was just arrogant enough to not believe that anyone outside her circle would know about her party, much less crash it. Or failing that, think it was a different Sarah's party.

* * *

Sherlock was practicing his fencing as Bertie watched. Bertie liked the way the fencing uniform showed off Sherlock's assets and slowly licked his bottom lip.

Sherlock finished the match with his partner and pulled off his fencing mask. When he spotted Bertie, he blushed.

"Hey, Bertie."

Bertie smirked. It was taking everything he had not to just bend Sherlock over and fuck him into the mat.

"Hey, gorgeous," Bertie replied. "Did you hear about Sarah's party this Saturday?"

Sherlock shrugged, trying to play it cool, "Who hasn't?"

Bertie smiled. "You thinking about going?"

Sherlock fiddled with his rapier, "I would like to, but I can't go unless Mycroft does."

Bertie reached up and stroked Sherlock's cheek, "Don't you worry your pretty head about that. I've got it all under control."

Sherlock nodded, blush staining his cheeks.

Bertie leaned in closer, "I hope to see you there."

"Yes," Sherlock managed to croak out.

"Good boy," Bertie purred. "I'll see you on Saturday."

He abruptly straightened and turned on his heel without so much as a backward glance, leaving behind a very flustered Sherlock.

* * *

John and Sherlock were walking through Regent's Park, and after a few minutes John brought up Sarah's party.

"You heard about the party, right?" John asked nervously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but without my brother going, I'll be stuck at home."

They walked on in silence for a few moments before Sherlock turned to John, "How is Operation: Get-Mycroft-a-Date going anyway?"

John ran his fingers over his face. "Not good," he admitted.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, "You aren't going to let me down, are you?"

"I'm trying not to!" John protested. "But he's not going for my mate."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Well, I know he likes pretty boys. He has a picture of Cary Grant in his bedroom."

"That's a bit far back, isn't it?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "He likes the classics. And smoking is a definite no."

John mentally noted that, "Anything else you can tell me that might help?"

Sherlock smiled, "He's not home right now, we could check out his room. Rifle through his things, find out what else he likes."

"I'm game," John agreed.

* * *

Sherlock pulled a fistful of vinyl records off the shelf and thrust them at John, "These are the bands he listens to most often."

John thumbed through them and grimaced. There were a lot of Indie punk with really weird names in the pile.

Sherlock threw a couple of leather-bound books on top. "He's old fashioned, he prefers to write things down. So the blue one is his diary and the other is his contacts." He continued to walk around the room. Then he dropped a couple of concert tickets on top of the records, "Here are some tickets to the band he listens to the most. He always buys one for Anthea to go, too."

John looked at the tickets and noted the all the relevant information as Sherlock began to rummage through Mycroft's drawers. He also decided not to touch the diary, he really didn't want to know what someone like Mycroft thought about. Mycroft didn't have a filter and always said what was on his mind, and the thought of getting that on full blast was enough to leave the damn diary alone.

"Ah ha!" Sherlock called out, holding up a pair of pants. "Someone is thinking about sex."

John stepped closer to see that it was a black jock strap. "So, it's a jock strap, doesn't your brother ride horses?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "No sane rider would wear a black strap under tan riding trousers."

John raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Besides," Sherlock continued, "I'm pretty sure that even if he did, they wouldn't be made out of silk and lace."

John blinked and his brain caught up. "Oh!" The fact that Mycroft thought about taking it in the arse was way more than John ever wanted to know about the boy.

"Can we look through your room next?"

"No," Sherlock growled. "A boy's room is private."

John waved at Mycroft's room in confusion.

"That's different," Sherlock replied haughtily. "This is what he gets for ruining my life."

John nodded and resolved to never piss off Sherlock Holmes.

Ever.

* * *

Mike and John walked into the Criterion and looked around.

"Kayla from history was saying that in America they aren't even allowed into pubs or bars until they are twenty-one. And they have to show ID," Mike commented.

"Yeah, my dad was stationed in Seattle, Washington for a few months and was telling us how hard it was to find a good beer," John agreed. "Can you imagine all the dirty looks we would be getting if we were in America?"

Mike agreed. "Let's find Greg, yeah?"

John nodded and spotted the older boy playing pool, drinking and smoking. When Greg noticed them, he moved over to a table and ordered them some fish and chips and a pint if they wanted.

Mike took him up on it but John declined. "Family issues," he explained, "but thanks for the food."

Greg shrugged. "It's the least I could do, making you come out here like this. So what have you got for me?"

"First things first," John said by way of greeting, handing him a box. "He doesn't like smokers."

Greg took the box and groaned when he saw that it contained nicotine patches. "So I'm a non-smoker?" he asked as he threw the box into his bag.

John nodded. "And here's the thing..." he said nervously, tangling his fingers together, "he likes pretty boys."

Greg blinked at him and cocked his head to the side. He stood up slowly, menacingly, "What? Am I not pretty?"

"He-he's very pretty," Mike told John, "he's a gorgeous bloke."

"Yeah," John agreed quickly. "I just didn't want to say, you know in case..."

"In case you thought of yourself as more the ruggedly handsome type," Mike admitted, "You're gorgeous."

Greg sat down with a satisfied smirk.

John pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him, "These are his favorite bands, he likes Thai food, political prose, and angry music of the Indie punk persuasion."

Greg looked at the list and back up to them in shock, "What am I supposed to do, buy him noodles, a book, and listen to bunch of idiots who don't know how to play their instruments?"

"Have you ever been to Club Dio?" Mike asked.

"One of his favorite bands is playing there tomorrow night," John explained.

"Club Dio as in Club Diogenes?" Greg asked. They both nodded. "I can't be seen there. All right?"

"But he'll be there," John protested. "He has tickets."

"Look," Mike growled, "it's just one night."

"He has a black lacy jock strap, if that helps," John said awkwardly.

Mike winked at Greg's stunned face, "Can't hurt, right?"

* * *

 **A/N: "Enculer" (according to the French swear word site I found) is like "Putain" or fuck, but a more commonly used term. It's like the formal vous and the informal tu. Enculer is more informal and something that Greg would be more likely to use.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello and welcome to the latest chapter of my depression KICKING my ass. So much so that I didn't even realize that I had enough story written for a chapter. When I did realize that fact I sat down and started typing it up. I finished over the weekend and then sent it off to the wonderful Old Ping Hai.**

 **I would love to say that this means the next chapter should be out faster, but I'm really not taking bets on that right now. It kills me that it's taking so long, but it will be done. Otherwise Old Ping Hai will being doing the kicking instead of my depression. :D**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Greg walked through the doors of Club Dio and was blasted with the sounds of earsplitting Indie rock and rowdy fans. He scanned the room and immediately spotted Mycroft on the dance floor. He had dressed up in a white button up shirt, sleeves rolled up, and chains and leather bands graced his slender wrists. The red silk brocade waistcoat was paired with dark jeans and trainers. Mycroft was dancing with Anthea and looked like he was actually having fun.

Greg smiled and shook his head. He walked up to the bar and sat down. The bartender turned around and they fist bumped their greeting.

"Hey, Ajay," Greg said with a wince. "Can I get a bourbon on the rocks?"

Ajay grunted and began filling his order, "Your mum know you're here?" he asked, as he slid Greg his drink.

Greg blanched with the glass halfway to his lips. "You plan on telling her?"

Ajay laughed. "Greg, you're of age, you can go wherever the hell you want. But you know why I've got to ask."

Greg winced again. "Yeah, thanks, mate." He took a sip of the liquid and sighed.

"What are you even doing here?" Ajay asked with a shake of his head.

Greg opened his mouth to explain, when Mycroft came up to the bar and asked for two bottled waters.

Ajay went to the ice box and pulled them out for him. As he was handing over the bottles, Greg asked, "A bit thirsty, are you?"

Mycroft looked over and rolled his eyes. He put his elbow on the bar and turned his body toward Greg, "If you're here to ask me out again, you might as well get it over with."

Greg studiously ignored him and continued to sip his bourbon, pretending to focus on the music blaring all around them.

Mycroft eyed him suspiciously and cocked his head to the side. "You aren't surrounded by your usual haze of smoke."

"I quit," Greg said, pulling up his sleeve and showing off his nicotine patch. "Apparently, they're bad for you."

Mycroft scoffed, "You think?"

Greg smiled and then pointed up at the speakers, "Do you mind? I'm trying to listen to the band." He got up, "I mean they aren't Vauxhall Cross, but they're not bad." He moved to closer the dance floor and Mycroft was hot on his heels, grabbing the bottles with a mumble of thanks to the bartender.

"You know Vauxhall Cross?" Mycroft asked, incredulous.

Greg looked up at him innocently, "Don't you?"

Mycroft blinked in surprise.

Greg couldn't help the warmth in his chest looking at the other boy, "I saw you dancing when I came in, I don't think I have ever seen you look so..." just then the song ended and made the last word loud in its void, "SEXY."

Everyone round them laughed at his gaffe. Even Mycroft let out a small giggle.

Greg stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "Come with me to Sarah's party," he said more quietly.

Mycroft shook his head, "You never give up do you?"

Just then the music started back up and Greg huffed in annoyance. Mycroft began to dance his way through the crowd.

"Was that a 'yes'?" Greg called after him.

"No!" Mycroft yelled back over his shoulder.

"Was that a 'no' then?" Greg asked.

Mycroft laughed. "No!"

Greg smiled, "I'll pick you up at 9:30!"

Mycroft just shook his head. He was swallowed up by the dancers, and Greg lost sight of him.

* * *

Mycroft made it back to Anthea and handed her the other bottle of water.

"What took you so long?" she asked, taking the water.

Mycroft huffed out an aggravated sigh. "I got accosted by Lestrade."

Anthea jumped up and tried to see over the crowd. When she finally managed to catch sight of him she said, "I'd tap that, he's hot."

"You can have him, he's annoying," Mycroft replied. He opened his bottle and took a long gulp of water.

"Annoyingly hot," Anthea retorted. "Besides, he is obviously interested in you."

"I don't know why," Mycroft admitted. "He's even asked me to go to Sarah's party."

"So go," she said with shrug. "What harm is it going to do?"

"I hate parties," he growled.

She rolled her eyes, "Do it!"

"Maybe," he muttered.

"You're impossible," she said, throwing her hand hands in the air.

Mycroft laughed. "No, I'm improbable."

Anthea just shook her head.

* * *

Greg went back to the bar and ordered a shot of vodka.

Ajay just raised an eyebrow and poured him the shot.

Greg took it gratefully and downed it in one go. "Another," he croaked.

Ajay handed it over, "Someone's got you around the twist."

Greg thumped his head on the bar and groaned.

"Let me guess," Ajay teased, "that hot young thing who asked for the water bottles?"

"I can't get a read on him," Greg admitted. "He acts so cold, but I keep getting flashes of something else and..." He let out a pained moan.

"So he's not failing for the Lestrade charm and you don't know what else to do?"

Greg lifted his head from the bar, "That sums it up, yeah."

Ajay laughed.

* * *

Sherlock and Sally tiptoed to the front door, dressed to the nines.

"Should have used the window, love," Mummy called from the sitting room.

Sherlock and Sally froze as they watched in horror Mummy standing up and walking toward them.

"We were on our way to a study group," Sally lied.

Mummy raised an eyebrow and cocked her head, "Is that what they are calling it these days?" She waved at their outfits. Sally was wearing a tight, red sleeveless dress and Sherlock was wearing tight black jeans, a dark blue v-neck t-shirt, and black leather jacket.

Sally folded like a house of cards. "It's just one party, Mrs Holmes."

"Sally!" Sherlock hissed.

Mummy sighed. "I know what goes on at these parties, dears. Drugs and alcohol. Unprotected sex. Orgies are next, I have no doubt."

Sally and Sherlock looked at each other in disgust and replied together, "Ew."

"It's not like that, Mummy," Sherlock insisted.

"Be that as that may, you are not allowed to go unless Mycroft does," Mummy said.

Just then there was a knock on the door. Before anyone could react, Mycroft breezed past them, in blue jeans, a light blue button up and black waistcoat. He threw on his coat and opened the door to reveal Greg who was similarly dressed.

"Bye, Mummy," Mycroft muttered before slamming the front door behind him.

Mummy stared at the door in shock.

"Um, Mrs Holmes," Sally began, "that looked like Mycroft on his way to the party..."

Sherlock smirked. "Does that mean that I can go now?"

Mummy threw her arms up in the air in defeat and Sherlock and Sally cheered.

"But I'm driving you, and you have to be home by midnight!" Mummy snapped.

But the stipulations did nothing to dampen Sherlock's glee. He was on his way to his first party.

* * *

Mycroft looked at Greg's Triumph and snarled, "We're taking my car." He glared at Greg, daring the other boy to protest.

"Well, as hot I think you would be on the back of my bike," Greg said with a chuckle, "it wouldn't do to show up with both of us in helmet hair, people might talk."

"And I'm driving," Mycroft said firmly.

"Fair enough," Greg said, raising his hands in defense, "your car, your rules."

As they got into the car Mycroft asked, "Why aren't you being more..." he waved his hand trying to find the right word.

"Pig-headed?" Greg asked with a grin.

"It'll do," Mycroft agreed. "I thought you would insist on the motorcycle. And then I thought you'd insist that you drive."

"Why? Because I asked you out, I have to be the one in control?" Greg inquired.

Mycroft's head rocked back, "Well, yes."

"That's bullshit. Everybody's different and if you want to drive, then you drive," Greg explained.

After a couple of moments of silence, Mycroft cursed, "You went with 'not messing up your hair' as a reason not to have us ride your motorcycle, really?"

Greg laughed. "Damn, I thought that had gotten by you."

"I'm not thick, Lestrade," Mycroft growled.

"What can I say? I like the classics," Greg replied with a grin.

"Cheesy is more like it," Mycroft grumbled.

"Well..." Greg said drawing out the word, "this party _was_ supposed to be a cheese-tasting party."

"Was?" Mycroft asked.

"We may be crashing the original party as someone's revenge," Greg hedged.

Mycroft slammed on the brakes. "Whose?"

Greg waggled his finger, "I can't reveal my source."

"Oh God!" Mycroft exclaimed, bashing his head on the steering wheel. He huffed out a sigh. "All right, it's too late to back out now."

"That's the spirit!" Greg teased.

"I hate you," Mycroft growled.

"No, you don't."

* * *

Sarah was looking around at the perfect arrangement. She had almost every cheese imaginable. Well, all but the stinky ones. Her mum put her foot down at the Limburger.

She was just waiting for Bobby to bring the Brie and then she could start. She smiled at the guests who were already there. Molly and Jackie were sitting on the sofa chatting about chemistry, and Ella and Louise were discussing psychology on the settee.

The doorbell rang and Sarah went to answer the door. Poor Bobby was being pushed out of the way by the oncoming rush of his fellow students. She watched in horror as they set up a live DJ, filled coolers with ice and beer; plastic cups and paper plates made their appearance.

The only thought in her head was that her parents were going to _murder_ her.

* * *

"Why couldn't you get ready at your house?" Mike asked, as John styled his hair.

"Because my dad would kill me if he thought I was going to a party," John explained with a wince. "So I told him I was spending the night here."

"What about your mum?" Mike asked.

John just shrugged.

Mike decided to leave it alone and began tying a Windsor knot into his tie. When he was done, he turned to John, "What do you think?"

John raised an eyebrow, "I think you look like my Uncle Albert."

Mike put on a cocky smile. "So, a stylish bloke, then?"

"No."

Mike pulled off the tie in a huff. "Fine."

"You'll thank me later," John insisted.

As they got into John's car, Mike asked, "Hey how did you get a car?"

John rubbed his hands over his face. "It's the only way I can get to school."

Mike paused. Obviously there was more to it than that, but he could tell John didn't want to talk about it and quietly got into the passenger seat.

John got in and started the car, "You ready for this?"

"Hell yeah."

* * *

 **Don't worry, I will be explaining John and Greg's backstories later in our tale.**

 **Up next: the Party!**

 **Until then!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello and welcome to another rendition of depression is a bitch and I hate it soooo much.**

 **I can't blame all of it on depression though, some of it was losing my notes on the chapter and trying to find them again.**

 **Thanks to my wonderful beta Old Ping Hai for the way she helps get these chapters into shape.**

* * *

By the time Greg and Mycroft arrived, the party was hopping. Music could be heard from the street, people were draped over every surface, some were dancing, but it seemed like all of them were drinking.

Greg smiled in satisfaction watching Sarah run around trying to prevent damage to the house. She grabbed a crystal vase that someone had been using as a spittoon and tried to break up a fight.

"Please!" she cried, "Take it out‒" the two boys that were fighting crashed through the patio doors and on the lawn. "Side." Sarah sighed heavily. "Thank you," she called weakly.

Greg followed Mycroft through the crowds and wondered if this was such a good idea after all.

He was derailed from that thought by a girl with long, brown hair and deep brown eyes throwing herself at him.

"Whoa there!" Greg said catching her before she fell.

"Kiss me!" she muttered.

Greg searched his memory for her name. "Stella?"

She giggled, "Who knew that I made such an impression on the great Lestrade?"

Greg rolled his eyes. He cast around for anyone who could help. He spotted one of Sarah's friends. "Hey, Molly!"

She turned around and frowned. "What do you want?"

Greg turned Stella toward Molly and gently pushed her in her direction. "I'd hate to be a bother, but she is really, _really_ drunk and throwing herself at random blokes. Would you get her somewhere safe? Somewhere where no one could take advantage of her?"

Molly sighed and took the flailing girl off Greg's hands.

"Thanks," Greg murmured.

Molly nodded.

Stella looked up at Molly and cooed, "Ooh, you're very pretty."

Molly blushed as Greg laughed.

Finally free of the girl, Greg turned to find Mycroft, but he was gone. Greg cursed.

* * *

Mycroft wove through the crowd, cursing Lestrade, Sherlock, their mother, and Anthea for getting him into this mess. Mycroft shook his head. Where did this all go wrong? He wanted cry. Instead he took a deep breath and went looking for a way out. He picked a doorway, but that proved to be the wrong choice, as Bertie was in it.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't little Mikey," Bertie sneered.

Mycroft turned on his heel and walked away, but Bertie called out to him.

"Where you going?"

"Away!" Mycroft called out over his shoulder.

Bertie ran to cut him off. "Hey, don't be like that," he oozed. "Is your brother around?"

Mycroft whipped his head up and snarled, "You leave him alone."

Bertie stuck his hands in his pockets and slowly advanced on Mycroft, "Oh, I'll leave him alone, but I can't guarantee that he'll leave me alone."

Mycroft growled. He dove into the crowd and began looking for Sherlock. He had to find him before Bertie did. There was something he had to tell his little brother, Mycroft's dignity be damned.

He rounded a corner and came face to face to a very smug Bertie, his arm draped over Sherlock's shoulders possessively.

"Look who found me, Mikey," Bertie sneered.

Mycroft closed his eyes pained and let them pass, but at the last second, he reached out for Sherlock's hand. "Wait, Sherlock! I have something I want to tell you."

Sherlock broke out of Mycroft's grip. "Do _not_ address me in public."

Mycroft stepped back as though he'd been slapped.

"I am _trying_ to enjoy my life," Sherlock went on. He waved Mycroft off, "Run along and do the same."

Bertie led Sherlock away from Mycroft and further into the party.

Mycroft glared at their retreating backs. Someone passed by with a tray of drinks and Mycroft took one and gulped it down. The kid holding the tray cheered him on.

Mycroft grabbed another one and was about to down it when Greg showed up.

"Hey, I've been looking for you everywhere," Greg said by way of greeting.

Mycroft downed the drink and grabbed a third.

"What are you doing?" Greg asked, eyeing the drink.

"Getting completely pissed, isn't that what you're supposed to do at parties?" Mycroft snarled.

Greg put up his hands in surrender. "I say you do what you want to do."

"Strange, you'd be the first," Mycroft muttered and pushed his way past Greg to go in search of more booze.

* * *

Mike and John arrived at the party and immediately John went in search of Sherlock, leaving Mike to awkwardly work the room.

He first tried talking about the car he wanted to buy, but as it was a sensible car and not something fancy like Jaguar or Astin Martin, the girl merely rolled her eyes and walked away.

The second strikeout for Mike was that he tried dancing near a group of girls. And since Mike's sense of rhythm was as graceful as an infant goat, he was rebuffed there as well.

Mike tugged on his shirt, "I knew I should have worn the tie."

John came dashing up to Mike. "I can't find him. How am I supposed to find him in this crowd?"

Mike rolled his eyes, "You'll be fine."

"How can you say that?" John asked, his voice raising in panic.

Mike looked up and then with a smile pointed to the top of the staircase. "Follow the love."

John's eyes moved to where Mike was indicating and sucked in a breath. For at that very moment Sherlock was making his way down the stairs, Sally close behind.

John met them at the bottom of the stairs. "Sherlock," he greeted a tad dreamily.

Sherlock nearly squeaked. "John!" He grabbed Sally by the arm and thrust her between them.

"Have you met Sally?" Sherlock asked.

"It's John, right?" Sally asked and then turned to Sherlock with a look of 'Why are we talking to this person?'

"Yeah, we have art together with Miss Wenceslas, right?" John asked, trying to keep the conversation going. He coughed, "Uh, um...wow. Sherlock, you look amazing."

Just then Bertie came in between them and threw his arms around Sally and Sherlock, "And we all know _I_ look amazing."

John laughed politely as Bertie dropped his arm from around Sally to focus on Sherlock. "Come on, we're all gathering around Culverton Smith. It's pretty awesome."

Bertie led them away, but Sherlock tried to turn around to talk to John, "We'll talk later, all right?"

John nodded and Sherlock turned around. Bertie turned back for a brief second to give John a thumbs up. Like everything was okay. Like everything was going to plan. Only _nothing_ was going to plan. This sucked.

* * *

"So I've got this sock ad this weekend and then next week is the hemorrhoid cream ad," Bertie was explaining to Sherlock, his arm still around the younger teen's shoulders as they walked through the crowd of teenagers. "Now, the sock ad is a good start, but I really feel like the commercial for the cream is going to be my ticket."

God, Sherlock was bored. He didn't think it was this possible to be this bored.

Bertie jumped in front of Sherlock, causing him to pull up short or run into Bertie.

"I want to show you the difference between swimwear and underwear modeling poses," Bertie enthused.

"This is underwear," Bertie explained, posing with his hands on his hips, head to the side, expression bland. "And this is swimwear." And as far as Sherlock could tell, there was no discernible change between the two.

"Did you see the difference?" Bertie asked. Before Sherlock could even open his mouth to lie, Bertie said, "Here let me show you again."

Sherlock backed away before he got sucked into that further, but it didn't even matter. There were people there who were willing to fawn over Bertie and so the teen forgot all about Sherlock and turned to his fans.

Sherlock walked back through the house, and across the hall he spotted John. And then John spotted Sherlock, and they stared at each for a moment before John walked away.

Something twisted in Sherlock's stomach and he turned to follow John, but the other teen had melted into the crowd and was gone.

* * *

Greg was starting to panic now. He needed to find Mycroft and get him out of here before trouble _really_ started.

He spotted Mycroft about to take another shot of something and rushed over. "Hey, hey. Let me have this one." But before he could take it from Mycroft, the boy downed it in one gulp.

"Leave me alone," Mycroft growled, and pushed Greg out of the way.

Greg turned to follow, but Bertie blocked his path. "So I want to know how you did it," Bertie said.

"Did what?" Greg asked.

"Made the Ice Man human," Bertie sneered and pointed at where Mycroft was now dancing on the kitchen table.

Bertie immediately jumped in and began cheering Mycroft on, joining the throng of other students chanting and cheering.

Up from the second story, Sherlock watched in disgust. He rolled his eyes and walked away.

Mycroft's dancing became more and more provocative as his classmates egged him on. He writhed and undulated on the table, touching himself.

Greg looked up at him and ached at the sight. He closed his eyes and opened them just in time see Mycroft straighten too fast. He hit his head on the chandelier and went down, stiff as a board.

Greg leapt into action and caught Mycroft before he could hit the floor. Everyone around them thought it was part of the show and just cheered some more.

Greg stood Mycroft up, "Hey, are you all right?"

Mycroft opened his eyes to glare at Greg. "Of course." He tried to push away but the second Greg let go, Mycroft crumpled.

Greg caught him again, "You are not okay."

Mycroft tried to shake him off again, "I just need to lie down."

Greg went ashen, "Uh no. If you lie down, you'll fall asleep."

Mycroft giggled, "Sleep would be good."

"Not if you have a concussion," Greg explained. He threw Mycroft's arm over Greg's shoulder so that he could to lead him out of the house and out to the garden. "Here," he said, sitting Mycroft down on a bench. "Sit."

Mycroft held his head and landed on the bench with a heavy thud. Maybe Lestrade was right, maybe he did have a concussion.

Greg leaned down to check Mycroft's pupils when John came up to them.

"We need to talk," John growled.

Greg didn't even bother to look up, "I'm kinda busy here, John."

"I just need a minute, can I have that?" John snapped.

That forced Greg to look up and the expression on John's face was thunderous. Greg huffed out an irritated sigh but followed John far enough away that Mycroft could not overhear.

"What?" Greg asked, his hands on his hips.

"The deal is off," John bit out.

Okay. That wasn't what Greg was expecting. "Excuse me?"

"The deal is off," John repeated. "Sherlock was never interested in me. He was chasing Bertie the whole time."

Greg wanted to curse in French _and_ English. "John, do you like the bloke?"

John paced back and forth, "Yes. No. I don't know."

Greg grabbed him by the shoulders, "Is he worth all this?"

John half shrugged, "I thought he was."

"Either he is or he isn't. For starters, Bertie isn't half the man you are. Secondly, don't ever let anyone make you feel you like you don't deserve something you want." Greg gave John a small shake, "Go for it."

Out of the corner of his eye, Greg saw Mycroft start to lean too far off the bench and dashed to catch him again.

John watched as Greg carefully led a hurt and very dazed Mycroft further away from the party. John thought about what Greg had said about Sherlock.

It was decision time.

Was Sherlock worth all this effort?

* * *

 **A/N: Hint: I have never written a story that doesn't end happily ever after and I have no desire to start now.**

 **Also I couldn't resist name dropping a couple more Sherlock-ites. Stella, the drunk girl, is DI Stella Hopkins from this most recent season of Sherlock and Culverton Smith, also from this season. At this point it will be more of a case of who** ** _isn't_** **in this story rather than who is.**

 **EDIT: I forgot that Miss Wenceslas is also from Sherlock. She is the museum lady that hired Moriarty for the fake Master.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hello, hello! June and July are really busy months for me, and in the middle of all this I had to get a new laptop because it took 5 tries to get it to come on one night and went oh hell no! So I have a shiny new laptop and I like it. Even though the Best Buy guy kept trying to up sell me to a gaming laptop when all I do it on it social media and write. Idiot.**

 **But here we go, a new chapter to go with the new laptop. It was going to be longer but I thought it was better to end it where I did.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Greg led a lumbering Mycroft away from the party, trying to find somewhere quiet so he could get a better idea whether or not the other boy had a concussion.

"This is flagitious," Mycroft muttered as he struggled to stay upright.

Greg huffed out a sigh, "Just my luck that your vocabulary wouldn't suffer when you're pissed."

Mycroft tried to get away and scrambled on all fours, but Greg grabbed his hips and put Mycroft back into a standing position.

"I don't think so!" Mycroft called.

Greg rolled his eyes, he spotted a swing set and steered Mycroft over to the swings.

Mycroft whirled around to face Greg, "Why are you doing this?"

Greg grabbed Mycroft's shoulders to steady him and to look at his eyes to see if they were dilated, "Because you might have a concussion."

Mycroft's head listed to the side and he brought it back up with a jerk. "You don't care if I don't ever wake up."

The corner of Greg's mouth tilted up, "Of course I do."

Mycroft leaned forward until their faces were really close, "Why?"

Greg's half smile turned into a full grin, "Because then I'd have start taking out blokes that actually like me."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and then winced when it hurt, "Like you could find one."

"See? Who needs affection when one has blind hatred," Greg joked.

Mycroft put a hand to his head. "I need to sit down."

Greg maneuvered him to sit on the one of the swings. Mycroft gripped the chains, but before Greg could move away, he lurched backward. Greg managed to catch him in time to steady him.

Once Greg was sure that Mycroft wasn't going to fall out again, he took the other swing.

"Why do you let him get to you?" he asked.

"Who?" Mycroft asked sleepily.

"Bertie," Greg replied.

"I don't know," Mycroft said, weakly. "Every time I think I'm finally above all this, I find myself dragged back in." He let his eyes drift shut, his head hurt so much.

Greg rushed to his side, and after a couple of frantic moments he got Mycroft to open his eyes.

Mycroft smiled, "You have really pretty eyes, they are so warm and inviting."

Greg smiled and it seemed like Mycroft was going to kiss him, but before he could make a decision to kiss back or not, Mycroft took the choice from him. By retching on his shoes.

Greg turned away but held on to Mycroft to keep him from falling over. Mycroft was winsome and beguiling, but he was also drunk and most likely concussed and therefore could not consent.

"Come on," Greg said, pulling Mycroft to his feet, "Let's get you home."

Mycroft nodded meekly and let Greg lead the way back to his car. He didn't even argue when Greg put him into the passenger seat and Greg took the wheel.

* * *

Bertie stood out on the pavement in front of the house with Sherlock and Sally.

"Hey," Bertie said, "Most of us are heading to Culverton's for the after party. You two coming?" He jutted out his chin to emphasize his point.

Sherlock nearly sagged in relief having an excuse to decline the invitation. "I really want to," he lied. "But Mummy said I had to be home by midnight."

Bertie's disdain wasn't completely masked at the statement, he turned to Sally, "How about you?"

Sally looked back at Sherlock and shrugged, "I don't have a curfew, so hell yeah!"

Bertie unlocked his car and she slid in, without so much as a backward glance at Sherlock. As they drove, Sally asked, "How did you get the car fixed so fast?"

Bertie laughed as he revved the engine, "Like I would want to be seen in anything but a _new_ Jag."

Sally laughed as he shifted into gear, tearing off into the night.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was starting to wonder what he saw in Bertie. But now he had to solve the problem of getting home _without_ calling his mother.

He sought Mycroft first, figuring that if Mycroft was as drunk as he appeared then Sherlock could drive home. He wasn't seventeen yet, but he had his provisional license and could use the practice.

But as Sherlock asked around, no one had seen Mycroft since the table dance and the 'crowd surfing' some claimed that he'd done. Others said he'd fallen off the table. Some said that he stumbled out on his own, others said someone had dragged him away.

There was only one option left. John. Sherlock gritted his teeth. It was either face the boy he'd hurt or face the wrath of his mother, and Mummy was scarier by far. Sherlock stopped in the middle of the dining room and went through his memory, trying to remember if he had spotted John in his hunt for Mycroft. He closed his eyes and put his fingers on his temples. He threw his head up and mouthed, "Oh!"

He ran for the staircase. And sure enough, sulking under the stairs was John Watson. Sherlock was struck at how beautiful the other boy was with his deep blue eyes and blond hair.

Suddenly Sherlock's confidence fled. How could he approach this beautiful boy after hurting him so much? But he didn't know anyone else here and he needed to get home. He was about to turn and flee when John spotted him.

"Hey," he muttered. "What's up?" John was still smarting from the sting of rejection, but the look on Sherlock's face was the one of sheer panic.

"I can't find Mycroft and I don't have a ride home!" Sherlock blurted out.

John frowned, "Greg took him home, I think." He cocked his head and Sherlock felt the air change around this boy. "Why don't you ask Bertie?"

Sherlock gulped and was near tears, "I can't, him and Sally were on their way to another party, and Mummy said that I had to be home by midnight and since this is my first party I don't want to get in trouble and not be able to go another and I don't know anyone else–" he rambled, twisting his hands into knots.

"Whoa!" John interrupted. "Hey, it's okay. I'll take you home."

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"Meet me out front," John said, "I have to let Mike know where I'm going and when I'll be back."

Sherlock nodded.

John shook his head and went in search of Mike. As mad as he was at Sherlock for leading him on, his protective instinct was going into overdrive, and he couldn't help but feel sorry for the boy.

John found Mike talking to Louisa and Jackie. "Hey, Mike."

"Oh hey, John," Mike replied. "What's up?"

"There's this kid that got stranded by his friends, would it be all right if we meet back up at your place?" John asked.

"Sure," Mike said with a smile, "I'll find someone to catch a ride with."

"If you want to go now," Louisa said, "I could take you home, I'm getting tired of this place."

"Can I get a lift, too?" Jackie asked. Louisa nodded.

"Well, there you go," John said with a laugh. "See you in a bit."

John walked off, but was surprised when Mike caught his arm. "What's up?"

"Are you okay?" Mike asked.

John didn't know how to reply to that question as no one had earnestly asked that question, actually wanting to know the answer.

"We can talk about it when we meet up at my house, all right?" Mike pressed.

John nodded and went to go find Sherlock.

* * *

As Mycroft and Greg neared Mycroft's house, Mycroft became more aware of his surroundings and more lucid, but Greg kept checking on him out of the corner of his eye.

Greg had turned on the radio to drown out the oppressive silence in the car when the band Vauxhall Cross came on.

Mycroft pointed to the radio, "I want to do that."

Greg frowned at the non-sequitur, "What?"

"I want to do that," Mycroft insisted, gesturing wildly at the radio.

"Play in a band?" Greg asked, still confused.

"No, install car stereos," Mycroft snarked, "Of course, play in a band." He turned to glare out the window. "It's not like Mummy would let me."

Greg tilted his head to the side, questioning. "You know, you don't strike me as the sort that would need permission from anyone, let alone their mum."

Mycroft turned to face him, "And what would you know about me?"

Greg shrugged, "Not much, I guess. But I'm starting get a bit of a picture forming, though."

Mycroft scoffed, "The only thing people 'know' about me is that I'm 'scary'." He used air quotes around know and scary. "My own mother wishes I was someone else."

Greg licked his upper lip, "Yeah? Who?"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft said in high-pitched voice, miming fairy hand motions.

Greg laughed. "No offense to your brother, mate. I mean I know he's supposed to be the shit or whatever, but I don't see it."

Mycroft blushed, "And maybe you aren't as vile as I thought." He took a deep breath and then leaned over to kiss Greg.

Greg closed his eyes and rolled his head away from Mycroft's lips. He opened his eyes, "Another time."

Mycroft's head snapped back as though he'd been slapped. He grabbed the keys out of the ignition and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

"Mycroft, wait!" Greg yelled.

"Fuck you!" Mycroft snarled in return.

"You might still be concussed!" Greg tried to reason.

"I'll be fine!" Mycroft replied, giving Greg the finger.

Greg hit his head on the steering wheel. He got out of the car, making sure it was locked up tight, and got on his bike. He pulled on his helmet, still cussing himself out. He should have at least explained that he didn't want to take advantage of Mycroft in his precarious state with the alcohol and the concussion. _Another time_? What the fuck were you thinking, Lestrade?

The motorcycle roared to life beneath him and he rode off, kicking himself for well and truly fucking up his one chance with Mycroft. And just when he was starting to like him.

As he rounded the corner, John and Sherlock passed him, but he was too far in his head to even notice.

* * *

John walked out to the front of the house and stopped at the door. Sherlock was pacing on the pavement, clearly worried that John wasn't coming back.

John closed his eyes. Maybe he had misjudged Sherlock and the only way to find out was to ask.

He went up and touched Sherlock's shoulder, "Hey, you ready to go?"

Sherlock nodded, "Thank you for taking me home."

"Yeah, sure," John replied, leading the way to his car.

Sherlock got in on the passenger side, fidgeting. John just shook his head and got behind the wheel.

The ride home was tense and silent, with Sherlock wound up as though he expected John to shout at him.

Sherlock wished he would. Shout, yell, something. He deserved it.

John was taut, a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, fighting the urge to do just that.

He took a deep sigh. "You never wanted to go sailing with me, did you?" John asked as he pulled up to Sherlock's house.

"Of course–"Sherlock began, but at the level glare John gave him, he bowed his head. "No."

John shook his head, trying to tramp down on his anger. "You could have said. I went out on a limb for you. I learned French for you. I've risked my father's wrath for you, and let me tell you, no can scream quite like an army drill sergeant." John took a deep breath. "Just because you are beautiful, that doesn't mean that you can just walk all over everyone and treat them like rubbish."

Sherlock looked up, "You think I'm beautiful?"

John looked over at him in surprise, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Sherlock looked down shyly and chewed the bottom of his lip. Then he leaned over and kissed John on the lips. John blinked in shock as Sherlock got out the car and started to walk for the house.

Sherlock looked behind him and smiled at the goofy grin John was sporting. He shook his head and went into the house.

By the time John's brain had come back on line, Sherlock was almost at the house, so he let out a whoop.

"Hell, yes! Sherlock kissed me!" He started back for Mike's house and screamed, "John's back in the game, baby!"


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** **Hello, my darlings. Did you miss me? I missed you all terribly. The problem I've found, writing depressed, is not knowing exactly how much I have written down, so I'm always surprised how much I actually have when I start typing it up. Which in this case was almost two full chapters. I just have one more scene to write for the next chapter and nine will be up before you know it. Well, you know, provided I don't get sick or forget or whatever.**

 **A little heads up regarding abuse of a minor. It's mostly verbal and emotional, but it's there.**

* * *

John turned onto the street where Mike lived and almost slammed on his brakes. Out in front of Mike's house was John's dad's car, a sleek, cherry-red Mazda MX roadster. And leaning against the bonnet of said car was Major Hamish Watson. The Major's arms were folded over his chest and his legs were crossed at the ankles. Thankfully, he was turned away from John and hadn't seen him yet.

John sent out a hasty, panicked text to Mike and hoped it was enough to get the point across that this was bad. This was worse than bad, this was a full-on crisis.

He needn't have worried because as John pulled up to the house, Mrs Stamford and Mike came out of the front door. "Major Watson," Mrs Stamford said, walking up to the stone-faced man, "why didn't you knock? I could have brewed up a cuppa for you, rather than waiting outside like this."

John got out of his car and grabbed the bag of goodies he always kept under his seat for when he didn't have time to eat before school or work. He tried so hard not to shake as he walked up to his dad, who was steadfastly ignoring Mrs Stamford's attempts to make small talk.

Major Watson grabbed John's arm and shook him, "Where the _hell_ have you been? I've been calling all fucking night. You been out doing drugs, sleeping around, stealing?"

"No, sir!" John squeaked, trying to lean back away from his dad, but his attempts to struggle only made the Major angrier.

"Don't lie to me, boy!" Major Watson snarled. "You were doing something!"

John pulled out his phone and handed it to his dad slowly, The battery died on my phone and I was just getting some treats for the movie Mike and I were watching."

Major Watson shook John again, causing his teeth to rattle, but took the phone from John's hand. He fiddled around with the buttons but couldn't get it to turn on.

He turned to Mike and his mother, "This true?"

Mike nodded, "We were watching the latest superhero movie, because I hadn't seen it yet. But we had run out of snacks about halfway through, and John offered to see if the local 24-hour had anything." He turned to John, "They have anything good?"

John shook his head, "I just have the stuff that I keep in my car, if that's okay?"

Mike waved him off, "We shoulda done that to begin with so we didn't worry your dad."

John looked up at Major Watson, hoping that his dad bought it. His dad shook him once more and then pushed him away. John stumbled and fell to the ground.

"I want you home by ten, your mother has an appointment with her specialist at eleven. And then you are going to do your chores and homework. And then we'll talk about further punishment."

John gulped. He knew what that meant. "I-I thought Harry was coming home this weekend to take Mum to her appointments."

Major Watson raised an eyebrow and got into his car without a word. John sat there on the ground as he drove off. Once the car was out of sight, Mike and his mum came running out to the street.

"Oh, John," Mrs Stamford cooed, as she helped the boy get to his feet. "I should have told him to stop."

John hung his head, "Nah, it's fine. That probably would have made him angrier."

"Does-does he hit you?" Mike asked, picking up the bag of goodies off the ground.

John shook head.

Mrs Stamford clicked her tongue in disapproval. "What I saw was bad enough, come inside. I'll make us all a cuppa, and you tell us as much or as little as you want. How does that sound?"

John nodded. Perhaps it was time he told someone. He'd been hiding this for so long that it would be nice to lighten the load for once.

He sat down at the small table and waited for the tea before he began. He told them of the emotional and verbal abuse that had gone on for years. The following John and Harry to make sure they were where they said they were going to be. The jabs at Harry's weight, the hints that John's friends all secretly hated him. The pitting of the siblings against each other.

"I'm just glad my dad doesn't think to put trackers in our phones or cars, otherwise I'd be seriously fucked up," John said, finishing his story.

"Speaking of phones," Mike replied, "there is no way that your phone could go from being able to text me to dead in mere seconds. How'd you do it?" He jutted out his his chin.

John chuckled. He fished his phone out of his pocket and tossed it to Mike. The other boy caught it deftly and laughed outright.

Mrs Stamford looked at her son quizzically.

Mike opened up the back of the phone and showed her it was empty.

John held up the battery with a grin. "It can't turn on without this."

Mrs Stamford started laughing, too.

John took his phone back and began putting it together again, "I would have run away a long time ago if it wasn't for Mum."

"Your father said something about a specialist, is she sick?" Mrs Stamford asked.

John nodded. "They aren't sure what's wrong. She complains that there is a pain in her back, but doctors have done all sorts of tests on her back, and they can't find anything. So we came back to England in hopes that they can find what is making her so sick."

"And Harry is your brother?" Mike asked. "Why can't he help?"

"Harry is short for Harriet, and ever since she came out as a lesbian, she's being out partying every night. She's in her gap year, so Dad can't do anything about it. She says she'll be home for the weekend and then we don't hear from her for days. It's better if she stays away." John finished off his tea and then rubbed his hands over his face.

Mike looked at his mum. "Always thought that having a dad was better than not having one at all, but not if he's like that. Sorry, Mum." Mrs Stamford hugged him.

"You're welcome to come over anytime," she told John. "Think of this house as a sanctuary, and I can deny having seen you if you need me to."

John shook his head; it was nice of her to offer, but he didn't want to get her in trouble.

"You boys go to bed," Mrs Stamford said. "I'll make sure to wake you up in time for John to get home by ten."

John nodded and followed Mike to his bedroom. They got changed in silence and lay down on the bed. For a moment they stared up at the ceiling in the dark.

"This has got to be the worst sleepover ever," Mike said dryly.

John let out a weak chuckle. "It wasn't all bad."

Mike turned to face him, "How?"

"Sherlock kissed me," John admitted shyly.

Mike settled back on his pillow, blinking in the dark for a moment before he slugged John's arm playfully. "You sly bastard. Come on, spill!"

And John did, and as he lay in the dark chatting with Mike, he knew he had found a friend for life.

* * *

Mycroft stumbled out of his bedroom the following morning, his head heavy and aching. He wandered to the bathroom and rummaged around for any painkiller he could get his hands on. He sighed in bliss as he found the good stuff.

He popped two caplets and downed them with some water.

"You know," Sherlock said from the doorway, "it's a good thing Mummy is at a fundraiser this morning and can't see you with the worst hangover ever."

Mycroft turned to Sherlock slowly. "If you think this is a hangover, you have got another think coming. This is from hitting my head on that stupid chandelier."

Sherlock shrugged, "It boils down to the same thing, you got drunk and now you're paying for it."

"And you still wonder why I don't go to parties," Mycroft growled, pushing past Sherlock.

"What has got your knickers in a twist this morning?" Sherlock asked with a frown.

Mycroft just flipped him off and went back to bed.

* * *

When Mycroft walked into Mr Lyons's English class on Monday, he felt less like death but his head still throbbed. As he found his seat, Mr Lyons called the students to order.

"How was everyone's weekend?" he asked.

Bertie sneered, "Maybe we should ask Mycroft."

Mr Lyons looked Bertie dead in the eye, "Unless he beat your arse, I'm not interested."

Bertie sank into his chair and Mycroft smiled in triumph.

Mr Lyons pulled out a book and turned to his bookmark. He began to read aloud,

" _In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,_

 _For they in thee a thousand errors note;_

 _But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,_

 _Who in despite of view is pleas'd to dote;_

Now, in spite of the fact that Shakespeare is a dead, white dude, he knows his shit, so we are going to ignore that bit. But what I want you lot to do is to write your own version of this sonnet."

Mycroft raised his hand.

Mr Lyons blinked in surprise that Mycroft actually deigned to raise his hand, but called on him anyway. "Yes, Mr I-have-an-opinion-about-everything?"

"Does it have to be in iambic pentameter?" Mycroft asked.

Mr Lyons worked his mouth but no words would form. He coughed discreetly into his hand. "What, no witty remark or biting criticism?"

Mycroft shook his head, "No, it's actually a really good assignment."

Mr Lyons looked at him dubiously, eyeing him with suspicion. "You want to know what? I can't handle this today. Go to the office."

Mycroft's jaw dropped in shock. "But Mr Lyons! That's not fair!"

"Go!" he replied, pointing at the door.

Mycroft grumbled unhappily and packed up his things to head to Mrs Hudson's office.

* * *

Mike, Greg and John were out by the polo pitch during their free period (well, it was Mike and John's free period, Greg was cutting class) as Greg explained what happened Saturday night.

"Shit," John murmured. "I'm sorry. I didn't know he'd hit his head. I wasn't thinking, making you leave him alone like that was a complete dick move."

Greg shrugged. "You were upset, it's fine. And since he's out there playing, I'd say he's fine, too."

"I'm sure things aren't as bad as you're making them out to be," Mike said consolingly. "Just give it a day, and you'll be fine."

Just then the polo ball came whizzing past Greg's head. Greg looked up and Mycroft sneered, saluted with his mallet, and rode off.

"Maybe two," Greg conceded.

"Was he trying to kill you?" Mike asked, as a ball boy went and fetched the ball from the stands.

Greg shrugged. "It's not like it matters anyway."

John and Mike shared a glance. "Uh, no. You have to fix this," John said.

"Why, I thought you were out?" Greg asked.

"That was before Sherlock kissed me," John explained.

Greg leaned forward, eager. "Where?"

"In the car," John squealed, giddy.

Greg sat back and thought about asking where Sherlock kissed him, not the location that the kiss took place. But decided that he figured he knew the answer anyway. If Sherlock had kissed John anywhere but on his lips, John would have said.

* * *

 **A/N: All the things that John's dad does was done to me and my siblings by my paternal grandparents. I got a fair brunt of it but sister was actually followed to parties by my grandfather because they didn't trust her. And my grandmother would grab our arm so we couldn't look away when she was yelling at us.**

 **As for Mrs Watson's illness; that was taken from a school friend's little sister. After six years of horrible back pain and they couldn't figure out what it was, someone x-rayed her stomach and lo and be hold, a cyst on her stomach lining that so big that it pushing into her spine and causing the pain.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hello, hello! I told you wouldn't have to wait long for the next chapter. Of course, chapter ten won't be out in less than a week, but now that I have set days off, I should have more writing time.**

 **And finally we have my favorite part of the movie, when Pat serenades Kat during practice. I actually wrote out the lyrics and wrote around the lines because it's easier to visualize that way. But because this site is full of wannabe rule enforcers (rules this very site doesn't police or police well) I have taken out the words to the song. So if you want to read this chapter as it is meant to be read, read it on AO3.**

 **I hope you enjoy it anyway.**

 **Loves!**

* * *

Mycroft spotted another poster for prom. That was the third one in twenty feet and he growled.

"Why would anyone want to go to that pitiful display of base human behavior?" he asked, tearing the poster off the wall and stuffing it into a nearby rubbish bin.

Anthea, who had been walking with him, sighed. "I would, but I don't have a date."

"I have no plans of going even if someone did ask me to," Mycroft stated proudly. "And you shouldn't either. Why do you even want to go?"

"Yes," Anthea muttered sarcastically. "Why would anyone want to get dressed to the nines, dance, and have fun for an evening?"

"I think you mean get groped by some twat in an off-the-rack suit, listening to some school-sponsored DJ, who by definition, blows?"

Anthea rolled her eyes.

"Besides, you're looking at this wrong way," Mycroft said, "think of it as a form of protest."

"Oh goody!" Anthea fake enthused. "Something new for us."

* * *

Bertie cornered Greg in the boys' bathroom.

"You're going have to stop your little obsession with me," Greg snarked, washing his hands. "People are going to talk." He winked.

Bertie slugged him. "Knock it off. Like I'd stick my dick anywhere close to your skeevy arse."

"Oh! You're a bottom!" Greg enthused, rubbing his arm as two boys walked in.

They saw Bertie and Greg and immediately turned around and walked back out.

"I want to pay you to take Mycroft to prom," Bertie snarled.

Greg blinked. That was the last thing he wanted to do. Even if Mycroft was speaking to him, which he wasn't.

But none of that showed on Greg's face as he spoke, "Well, prom is more expensive than the movies, there's the tux, flowers, a limo–"

"Yeah, yeah," Bertie replied. "£500 should about cover it. Anything over that and you're on your own." He pulled out a wad of cash and thrust it at Greg.

Greg counted the money and sure enough there was £500.

"Do we have a deal?" Bertie asked.

Greg stuck out his hand, "We have a deal," he reluctantly agreed.

Greg watched Bertie leave with a feeling a trepidation. If he wasn't fucked before, he certainly was now.

* * *

Mike walked up to Anthea as she was pulling books out of her locker.

"Hey," he greeted cheerfully.

Anthea leaned back to see around her locker door. "And you are?"

Mike blushed. "Oh, hi. I'm Mike, Mike Stamford."

Anthea turned back to her locker and Mike peered around the door and looked into her locker. It was covered with Shakespeare quotes and even a picture of the Bard himself.

"'This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.', Hamlet Act 1 Scene 3," Mike quoted.

Anthea looked at him approvingly. "So you know your Shakespeare. I'm impressed. But you aren't here to spout the Bard at me, so why are you here?"

Mike coughed into his hand, and then pushed his glasses up on his nose. "You see, my guy likes your guy. A lot. But they've had a fight and I was hoping you'd tell me what Mycroft's temperature was on the matter."

Anthea raised an eyebrow. "And why would I tell you that?"

Mike sighed, "'The course of true love never did run smooth'."

Anthea closed her eyes and opened them slowly. She told him everything that Mycroft had said. Insults and all.

"Ouch," Mike replied when she was done. "In my guy's defense, your guy was drunk and very likely concussed. Did Greg handle it badly? Sure, but it was better than taking advantage of Mycroft in his state."

It was Anthea's turn to sigh. "Look, I get where you're coming from, but the rejection stung."

"Right," Mike agreed. "Thanks."

* * *

John and Mike sat down next to Greg at lunch.

"So I talked to Anthea," Mike told them. "And she said, he 'hates him with the fury of a thousand fiery suns.' That's a direct quote."

"Oh, well," Greg said sarcastically. "That is really positive, Mike."

"'Sweet love, renew your force'," Mike quoted, his mind still on the Shakespeare-loving Anthea.

Greg slugged him. "Don't say that kind of shit around me. I've got a reputation to maintain."

Mike frowned, rubbing his arm.

John rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, Greg. You embarrassed the bloke. So sacrifice your ego on the altar of love and even the score."

Greg glared at him and got up without a word.

Mike hit John's arm.

"Ow!" John protested.

"Don't say that sort of thing around him, he's got a reputation to maintain," Mike growled.

* * *

Greg paced the hallway in front of the main offices. Twenty steps, turn, twenty steps, repeat.

He knew John was right. But he didn't know how to even the score. He would have to do something so embarrassing that Mycroft would forget all about that disaster of a party.

What could he possibly do that would accomplish that?

A couple of kids passed by him talking.

"You going to karaoke with us this weekend?" the girl asked the boy.

The boy shook his head. "I have to work."

Greg stopped as the light bulb lit above his head. That was perfect, and he knew just who to ask to pull this off.

He went running through the halls and slid to a halt as he spotted who he was looking for. A chubby little Asian girl was leaning against the wall next to the classroom and Greg walked right up to her.

He explained what he needed and offered to pay. They decided on a price and Greg left with a plan.

* * *

Mycroft sighed. While his head was feeling much better, it still felt like he was walking through water some of the time. Though maybe that had more to do with the pain in his chest and not in his head. He had really thought that Greg liked him like that, and then to be rejected when Mycroft was in pain just made the whole thing a million times worse.

Mycroft laid his head on his horse's nose and sighed again. He knew he could have seriously hurt Greg by aiming that polo ball at his head. But Mycroft had been so angry that Greg had had the audacity to come watch him practice after what he did, so Mycroft acted out of pure instinct and rage.

The horse raised his head and nudged Mycroft's. Mycroft petted his horse's nose. "Quite right. Let's get out there, shall we?"

The horse flicked his mane as if to say, "What do you think I've been trying to get you to do?"

Mycroft led his horse out of the stable and out onto the polo pitch, where most of the team had already assembled. He mounted the horse and clicked his tongue to spur the animal into motion.

About halfway through the practice, music began to play over the loudspeakers. Mycroft thought he recognized the the first strains of the song, but as he was about to put a name to it, Greg stepped out from announcer's box and slid down the flag pole to the bleachers. Greg pulled a microphone out of his pocket and began to sing the first verse of Hoobastank's "The Reason."

Without Mycroft noticing, during the first verse, his teammates moved off the pitch to make way for the marching band. As the chorus came in, so did the band and the music over the loudspeakers faded away.

Mycroft looked around him for the first time and noticed the band. He looked down at his horse in surprise that the animal didn't bolt at the sudden noise around them. His horse shook its head, clearly more annoyed than frightened by the band.

Greg continued to sing, and as he reached the end of the chorus, he pointed to Mycroft, who couldn't help but laugh.

Greg started to dance with the song as he began the second verse and Mycroft laughed harder.

Of course, it wasn't meant to last. The teachers had been notified, and they couldn't allow Greg to continue misusing school property. It was at this point in Greg's song that they decided to do something about it.

In the form of chasing him around the bleachers.

How Greg had managed to sing and avoid the teachers, Mycroft didn't know.

He flinched as a teacher grabbed Greg's jacket, but he escaped by slipping out of it. Mycroft breathed out a sigh of relief. Strangely, he wanted to see how far this idiot would go before they caught him.

As he neared the end of the second verse, that is when they tackled him to the ground. Mycroft wasn't sure what made him wince more, the tackle or the sound the microphone made when it hit the ground, causing that eardrum-splitting screeching noise.

As Greg was frog-marched away by the teachers, he turned to wave at the cheering crowd of polo players and spectators.

The band stopped as if on cue and quietly marched off the field as if that was as far into the song they had intended to play.

Mycroft started to laugh and to laugh hard, nearly doubling over in sheer mirth. He straightened up and wiped away the happy tears that he streamed down his face. Maybe Greg wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

The school was buzzing with the rumor that Greg Lestrade had serenaded Mycroft Holmes in front of the whole polo team and anyone who had come to watch.

Mike and John caught up to Greg at lunch and demanded to know what had happened.

"Come on," Mike urged. "Spill."

Greg half shrugged. "I merely took up John's suggestion of evening the score." He poked at his food, a small smile on his face as he thought about how hard Mycroft had laughed.

"I wasn't telling you to go out in front of everyone and sing to the bloke," John defended.

"It seemed to have worked," Greg pointed out. "Mycroft will remember me being tackled by Mr Hope and Mr Winters far quicker than he'll remember that I didn't kiss him that one time."

"Why didn't you tell us that you were going to do it?" Mike asked.

"Look, I'm all about evening the score with Mycroft," Greg said, standing up. "But there is no way in hell that I'm going to do it in front of you twats."

Greg grabbed his plate and went to dispose of the food he was never going to eat. His skin itched. Despite what he told John and Mike, he wasn't sure that Mycroft would be forgiving for Saturday with this little stunt of his. But that laugh was enough to make it all worth it.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hey...how's it hanging? Wow, so the holidays, depression, AND this stupid chapter was kicking my ass.**

 **But!**

 **It's an extra 1000 words longer than my usual chapters, so yay!**

* * *

Sherlock fidgeted nervously at his mother's exercise room door. He walked up to the door to knock only to lose courage and step back. He chewed on his thumbnail and paced back and forth.

He finally got up the nerve to knock and opened the door to Mummy's "Come in!" before he could bail.

"Hello, love," Mummy cooed from the treadmill. "How's school been?"

Sherlock twisted his fingers together to prevent himself from biting them. "Things are going great!" he replied around gnawing his lip.

"Sherlock..." Mummy said, with a note of warning in her voice. She knew when her son was about to ask for something he shouldn't. Like the time he asked for nitroglycerin.

"I promise it's not dangerous or anything like that," Sherlock rushed to soothe her.

Mummy cocked one eyebrow in disbelief.

"It's just that prom is coming up and I really want to go⊷"

"Absolutely not," Mummy bit out harshly. "Teenage sex, drugs, and alcohol run rampant at prom."

"Mummy, this isn't some horrid John Hughes film. For one, those are set in America, we're British. Two, they are fiction! Those things only happen to those that want them to."

Mummy scoffed, "And you're going to tell me that you don't _want_ any of those things?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can you, for one moment not be _barking mad?_ I just want a normal, fun evening with friends and a boy I like."

"And that is the problem: other teenage boys don't behave like you and Mycroft⊷"

"Gross, I don't want _anyone_ acting like Mycroft around me,"

Mummy glared him, "Other teenage boys weren't raised the way you two were and therefore are lacking in morals and upbringing. And that is the end of it, young man."

Sherlock stormed out and nearly ran into Mycroft. "Can't you convince some muppet to take you to prom so that I can experience a normal adolescence for once in my life?"

"Wasn't what happened to me at that awful party of Sarah's enough to convince you that we are better than that? And what about you? I heard Bertie and Sally bailed on you."

Sherlock just glared at him, and crossed his arms.

"And what is everyone's preoccupation with prom, anyway? I don't want to go, why is that so hard for people to understand?"

Sherlock pushed past him and yelled over his shoulder, "Some brother you are!" and ran up the stairs.

"Well fuck you, too!" Mycroft called out after him.

"Mycroft!" Mummy chastised.

And Mycroft seethed at the fact that Sherlock had gotten him into trouble.

Again.

* * *

Greg sat in a small classroom used for detention, twiddling his thumbs and wishing he had homework to do or at least remembered to bring a book with him.

The teacher running the detention was Prof Smallwood and Greg was glad. She dealt with detention the same way she did horses; with a firm and steady hand.

At the moment she was taking away someone's weed and crisps. Greg had to hide a smile. There was no rule prohibiting food in detention, so...Yeah, Prof Smallwood was going to have a _very_ good time after this.

Greg picked up his backpack and was rifling through it looking for something to do when Prof Smallwood let out a surprised gasp.

"Mycroft!" she called out. "What brings you to school on a Saturday?"

"Hello, Professor," Mycroft greeted in return. As he passed Greg's desk he knocked into Greg's backpack, sending it sprawling to the floor. Mycroft apologized and picked it up. As Greg took the backpack from him, Mycroft slipped something into the front pocket.

"No, seriously," Prof Smallwood said sternly, "what _are_ you doing here on a Saturday. In my detention, no less."

Greg stopped paying attention to what the two of them were saying and pulled out the note. He read it hastily and his jaw dropped. Apparently, this was a breakout.

Greg shoved everything back into his bag and started for the window.

* * *

Mycroft's usually silver tongue decided that the best time to abandon him was when he needed it most. So he made shit up.

"I was thinking about ways that we might distract our rivals on Saturday," Mycroft mindlessly blurted out. "And I think I came up with some ideas."

Mycroft was stuttering and trying to keep Prof Smallwood distracted when Greg made a noise opening the window. He needed to keep the Professor's eyes on him, so he did the only thing he could think of. He turned around and dropped his trousers, mooning his polo coach.

She let out a gasp of shock and Greg dived through the window.

"Yes, that would certainly distract Padua on Saturday," the professor stammered.

"Great," Mycroft said hiding his blush from the other students and without looking back added, "Now, I'll go show it to the rest of the team."

Mycroft ran for the door and couldn't be more grateful that Prof Smallwood was too shocked to call him back.

* * *

Mycroft hurried out his car and wasn't surprised to see Greg waiting for him. The other teen was leaning against the driver's side door, arms folded across his chest and ankles crossed.

"I've never had someone break me out of detention before," Greg said when Mycroft drew close to the car. "But then again, I'm not usually _in_ detention, so there's that."

That brought Mycroft up short, stopping only a few feet from from Greg, "Really?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow skeptically and walked up to him. "I would have thought that detention would be like a second home to you what with all the skipping classes you do, always having to go to Mrs Hudson's office and your..." Mycroft waved vaguely at Greg, "general attitude of 'juvenile delinquent'." He made shooing motions, but Greg didn't move.

"I'm the same as you, how do you keep out of detention?" Greg pointed out.

Mycroft opened his mouth to retort but closed it when Greg raised an eyebrow. Mycroft turned his head to the side and pouted. "Mummy."

Greg chuckled, "Well, my _maman_ doesn't have that kind of money to toss around, so I have to use my God-given charm. It tends to get me out of situations."

Mycroft scoffed.

"You are the exception," Greg pointed out.

"So what? And this time was an exception, too?" Mycroft asked, trying to get around Greg, who still refused to budge.

Greg shrugged, "Too many offenses at once."

Mycroft gave up and moved to the other side of the car, and Greg turned to lean on the roof.

"Although, I think I'm starting to warm up to you, maybe you are aren't as immune as you thought, as either of us thought."

Mycroft scowled. He wanted to argue, but he had just proven otherwise with his little stunt. "I'll make you a deal. We'll go out today, but we do things my way."

Greg thought about it for a moment and said, "Deal."

Mycroft shook his head and then tossed his car keys at Greg, "You drive."

Greg caught them deftly and slid into the driver's seat. "Where to?"

"It's time to pony up, cowboy," Mycroft replied with a grin. "Literally."

Greg laughed. "I know just the place."

* * *

Mycroft watched with fascination as Greg expertly saddled their horses.

"You know, when Prof Smallwood said that you were a polo player, I really didn't believe her, or you I guess," he told Greg.

Greg pulled on the saddle strap to make sure it was snug and shrugged, "Why was it so hard to believe?" He stood up and dusted off his hands on his jeans.

"Polo isn't exactly a poor man's sport," Mycroft explained, indicating the well-worn jeans and boots that were about to fall apart on Greg. "I mean no offense."

Greg shrugged again, "What if it's a look I cultivate?"

Mycroft huffed, "I know the difference. But if you don't want to tell, that's fine."

"All my _maman's_ money is tied up in keeping me at Baker Academy. Living here in England isn't cheap, in France we had land and horses and money."

Mycroft furrowed his brow and cocked his head to the side, "So why don't you go back?"

Greg scoffed and grabbed the reins, leading both horses out of the stable. Mycroft followed behind, wondering what he'd said wrong.

Greg held Mycroft's horse in place as he mounted and then mounted himself.

If Mycroft was impressed at the way Greg could saddle a horse, watching him mount impressed him even more. Finest seat in all of France indeed.

They picked a direction and rode off. After a couple mile of silence, Greg spoke up.

"Why _did_ you break me out of detention?" he asked. "I mean, I'm not saying I'm ungrateful or anything, but I _am_ curious."

Mycroft shrugged, "Well, it was my fault you were in detention in the first place.'

Greg huffed, "After being a jerk to you, I kinda needed to go big or go home."

Mycroft grinned at him smugly, "Well that's true."

"Hey!" Greg protested.

"All kidding aside, I just don't like doing what expected of me. Why go the ways others want me to go, when I can go my own way."

Greg looked at him for a moment, "You've got everything figured out, don't you?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Hardly. I make mistakes."

"I think that's sexy," Greg said, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

He turned and chuckled. "You up for it?"

Mycroft reared his head back, "Up for what?"

Greg pointed to the sign that read 'Paintball Arena'.

"Oh, you are on," Mycroft said.

* * *

Once they tied up their horses they went in to sign up for a session. When they got handed a bag of paintballs, Greg and Mycroft shared a confused glance.

"I thought paintball was played with guns," Greg said.

The owner scowled.

"Yeah," Mycroft agreed, "What are we supposed to do with these?" He held up the bag.

"You throw them, like civilized folk. Where do you think we are, America?" the owner scoffed.

Greg raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment further and Mycroft just thanked the man.

They were given a choice of colors; Greg picked silver and Mycroft chose black. They were then given white coveralls and thick safety goggles and led to the arena.

It was filled with hay bales, metal structures, plastic partitions, and wooden barriers.

A horn sounded and Greg and Mycroft took off in different directions. Greg tossed his first volley to hit Mycroft in the arm. Mycroft turned lob one that exploded in the middle of Greg's chest.

"Nice one!" he called out.

Mycroft laughed and ducked behind a wooden barrier with a square cut in the middle. Greg took the bait and threw a paintball straight at the opening. It splattered against the plastic partition and Mycroft stood up, laughing even harder.

"Gotcha!" Mycroft taunted.

Greg immediately threw another, this time hitting Mycroft in the chest. Greg laughed as the paint dripped down Mycroft's long neck and chin.

Mycroft decided it was time to duck and run. Greg chased him, tossing his paintballs at Mycroft, sometimes hitting, sometimes not.

Mycroft would return fire, but all the while he was really working his way around Greg, to sneak up on him. He took one of his paintballs and smashed into the back of Greg's head.

Greg whirled around, "Oh, that is it!" He barreled into Mycroft, bringing the other teen down onto a hay pile. He was about to smash a paintball right in Mycroft's face when he removed his goggles.

Greg was struck on how absolutely beautiful Mycroft was. He leaned down and Mycroft rose to meet him. They sealed their lips together. Mycroft sank back into the hay, Greg following to keep their lips pressed together.

Greg lifted his head and couldn't believe that he had finally gotten to kiss this beautiful boy. So he just had to do it again. He leaned down to kiss Mycroft once more. Their lips had barely touched when Greg felt a paintball hit the side of his face. He reeled back.

Mycroft got up and ran past him, giggling. Greg sat for a moment stunned before he gave chase.

Soon the horn sounded and they had to clear the field. They walked to the changing area laughing.

"I clearly won," Mycroft said as they walked out to his car.

Greg laughed. "And how do you figure?"

"You ran out of ammo first," Mycroft said smugly.

Greg shook his head, "I won. I hit you more times than you hit me."

Mycroft held up the car keys, "And I have your only way home." He jingled the keys with a teasing grin.

"I could just ride the horse back to the school and have the owners pick him up there," Greg said with a smile.

Mycroft opened his mouth to argue, but sighed. "You win."

Greg's smile grew into a grin and mounted his horse. Mycroft mounted his horse too and on their way back, they ran their horses through some of the maneuvers that Greg had learned in France so he could really show off his talents in the saddle. Mycroft was a good player, but he could hardly keep up.

When they got back to the stables, Mycroft was almost out of breath.

"You are damn good, Lestrade," he wheezed. "You really should being playing."

Greg laughed, "Like I told Prof Smallwood, you'd have to talk to my _maman."_

* * *

On the way back to the school to pick up Greg's motorcycle, Mycroft said, "Tell me something true."

Greg looked over at him in confusion, "I like peas."

Mycroft shoved his arm. "Not like that, something you haven't told anyone."

"You are sexy and gorgeous and you absolutely have the hots for me," Greg replied.

Mycroft pushed his shoulder again. "So how much of the 'bad boy persona' is real?"

Greg laughed, "I don't know, you tell me."

"I'll tell you what, I'll answer to any rumors truthfully if you do," Mycroft said.

"Sounds good," Greg replied. "So...um...kicking Chuck Magnusson in the bullocks?"

Mycroft laughed, "You would ask that one. True. But he grabbed my arse first. It was self-defense."

Greg cocked his head to the side, "Fair enough."

"Eating the raven?" Mycroft asked.

"Uh...no. I did eat foie gras once, though," Greg teased.

"You're French, of course you've had foie gras," Mycroft scoffed.

"Did you really blow up the science lab in fifth year?" Greg asked after a moment of thinking.

Mycroft shook his head, "I wasn't even there that day, I don't know how that one started to be honest. I blame Sherlock, honestly."

"You think he blew it up and blamed you?" Greg asked.

"It wouldn't be the last time he blamed something on me," Mycroft groused, thinking about their recent fights. "What about sleeping with the porn star?"

Greg frowned, "People actually say I've slept with a porn star?"

"It's why you weren't at school last year, you were doing a porn star," Mycroft said with a shrug.

"Yeah, no," Greg snapped. "That's not why."

Mycroft pulled up to the school and opened the door, getting out the car. Greg followed suit and they faced each over the car.

"Why did you miss last year?" Mycroft pressed.

"So here's the thing," Greg began, "My parents divorced two years ago over polo. My papa was always on the circuit, so rarely at home that my _maman_ felt like a single mother. Anyway, we moved here and she wanted to make sure I still got the best education, so all of her alimony goes toward keeping me at Bakers Academy."

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said, regretting his earlier comment.

"Anyway," Greg ploughed on. "Last year my papa was in a horrible accident and I spent six months at his bedside, helping him get back on his feet." He cleared his throat. "But while I was out there I was surrounded by horses and polo again and I loved it. So when I got back to England, _Maman_ and I fought over letting me play again. She said papa's accident was further proof that the sport was bad and that I should stay away."

"I don't know what I would do if someone told me I couldn't play guitar anymore," Mycroft said, pained. "So what did you do?"

"I took to drinking heavily," Greg replied putting his arms on the top of the car, fingers interlaced. "Partying every night. Hitting all the hot spots."

"Like The Diogenes," Mycroft correctly guessed.

"That was one of them, yeah," Greg bit out.

"So what made you stop?" Mycroft asked.

"My _maman_ made me a deal," he replied. "If I make it through this year of school and pass all my exams, she'll let me play polo during my gap year. So here I am."

"Wow," Mycroft breathed. He thought that Mummy was bad, but maybe there were people that had it worse. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine, but there you have it," Greg spat bitterly. "The very true and very dark history of Gregory Lestrade. It's not as cool or as hip as the porn star, but it will have to do."

"Well, it's hard to top that," Mycroft agreed. "So ask me anything."

Greg looked into Mycroft's eyes. "Will you go to prom with me?"

Mycroft barked out a jaded laugh. "Be serious. You can ask me anything."

"I am being serious," Greg said. "Come to prom with me."

Mycroft threw his arms in the air, "Why does everyone insist on harping about prom? I don't want to go." He got into the car and peeled out of the parking lot.

Greg called out, but he doubted he was heard over the roar of the engine and squealing tires.

He got on his motorcycle and put on his helmet, wondering where he went wrong this time. He rode off without finding an answer.

* * *

 **A/N: Seriously, though. Greg's backstory was written and rewritten so many times that it makes my head spin just thinking about it.**

 **And the whole date HAD to be one chapter, I couldn't find a way to split in a way that made sense.**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hello, lovelies! I'm back with a shiny new chapter and you should know that there will only be 2 more chapters. So, come hell or high water there will be only 2 more, regardless of length. Mainly because I've stopped caring about the chapters being a certain number to hit. But also because this little story has been going on for almost a year and a half and it's time to move on. BUT! It will be finished and you can thank Old Ping Hai, my tireless beta of many years, for that. She's awesome.**

 **In this chapter I plug a plot hole in the movie, Anthea gets time to shine, and we learn about Mycroft! Yay!**

 **I've also found a transcript of the movie and learned that I've done a few things out of order. Surprise, surprise, I am actually okay with this. My other fusions weren't as faithful to the movie as this one mostly has been, and I honestly needed the wiggle room.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

The first French lesson after the kiss, John thought, had gone well, but Sherlock seemed to be disappointed about something. John couldn't figure out where he'd gone wrong.

John had been very attentive, he thought. Well, as much as he could without tipping Joey off that they were an item. They met up after school.

"I can't believe prom is almost here," Sherlock sighed. "It's almost to the point where all the good suits and tuxes will be gone."

John shrugged. "My mum bought me a tux last year and she said that having one will be the most used thing I have in my closet."

"Does it still fit?" Sherlock asked.

John blushed. "I really haven't grown much, so it should."

Sherlock looked at John expectantly. John cocked him head to the side, but Sherlock huffed and walked off, throwing his arms in the air.

And that wasn't last time that they had similar conversations, all of them ending in Sherlock walking off frustrated.

Which was why John was sitting in the library, his leg bouncing up and down nervously, his heel tapping against the leg of the chair as he waited for Sherlock so they could start their French lesson.

Sherlock sat down in a huff and folded his arms across his chest.

"Hey, what's up?" John greeted.

"Let's get this over with," Sherlock snarled.

John's eyebrows shot up, "All right, then. Chapter eleven..." He turned to the appropriate page and began at the top. " _Puis-je vous offrir un panais?_ "

" _Non tu ne peux pas_ ," Sherlock deadpanned.

John frowned and looked down at the response in the book, but it didn't match with what Sherlock had just said. But he plowed on, " _Avez-vous vu le crayon de mon oncle?_ "

Sherlock sighed, " _Peut-être que ç'est dans ton cul._ "

John sat back and looked up at him, "Hey, that's not in the this chapter. Let's do this right."

" _Ç'est bête. Quand vas-tu me demander de sortir?_ "

John began to flip through the book trying to figure out what he had just said.

" _Appelez-moi quand vous comprendrez,_ " Sherlock said, tossing a piece of paper at him.

John looked at the paper and raised an eyebrow, it had Sherlock's phone number on it.

" _Je suis tellement baisée._ "

* * *

Anthea wanted to punch Mycroft. Okay, so that wasn't anything new, but this time she thought that she might actually do it. She wanted to go to prom; the tall, posh git didn't. Because if he had, then they could have gone together and avoided ninety percent of what the bastard had been complaining about.

But no. He didn't want to go, so she would have to find another date. Anthea was so desperate yet that she was willing to throw herself at anyone who might glance her way.

She looked up just in time to see Jim leer at her and she barely suppressed the resulting shudder. There were a lot of arseholes at Baker Academy, but Jim took it to a whole new level. She would beg _Bertie Gruner_ to take her to prom rather than stoop so low as to go with Jim Moriarty. Not that Anthea was Bertie's type. She had the wrong bits for that.

Anthea sighed and turned back to her locker. She opened it up and a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. She picked up and looked around, wondering who would have put something in her locker. But other than psychotic Jim there was only John Watson, who was chasing Sherlock Holmes and Sally Donovan, who was straight.

She turned over the paper in her hands, enjoying the soft, almost felt-like texture of the parchment. Written on one side of the paper in sepia ink were the words, "To the most fairest of the fair, Anthea, would you dare to grace your exalted presence with me to the prom Saturday next? Forever yours, William S."

On the back was a coupon to a dress shop in town called Tegan's that would allow her to pick out the dress of her dreams. It was mysterious and little strange, but she supposed it was better than having a dress magically appear in her locker. Now the question was to go or not to go?

On the one hand it was a teeny bit stalker-y, but on the other, she would get her date to prom because she was damn sure that Jim would never do anything even remotely considered romantic and she would be safe in that quarter.

She turned the card over in her hands as she thought about it. She closed the door to her locker and resolutely put the invitation in her back pocket. If she showed up to prom and the guy looked a creeper, she could bail. And at the very least she would a get nice dress out of it. So really, it was a win/win situation.

Anthea decided to go right after school, Mycroft was off being angsty about Greggy asking him out to prom and wouldn't miss her. She rolled her eyes. Those two just needed to get their heads out of their arses, honestly, but it was not her problem unless either of them made it so. And so far they seemed content to just snipe at each other. Though she couldn't speak for anyone else that might be involved, she was just glad they kept her out of it. Well, other than Mike asking about Mycroft's take on the after-party meltdown.

Anthea paused. Mike seemed like a good enough guy. Knew his Shakespeare, didn't immediately stare at her tits, and _still_ said hi to her in the halls, even after Mycroft and Greg got together. She wouldn't have minded it if he asked her to prom, but she wasn't sure what year he was in. She thought he might be in sixth form, but he also seemed older, too. She scoffed, not like it mattered, Mike wasn't the one asking her out.

When she got to Tegan's, she was a little surprised to find that it was a specialty shop that sold period clothing. From William the Conqueror up to the 1960s. The dresses were ready-made with a sign above the cash box saying that alterations were free. Around the shop were cinema and telly posters most likely from shows that featured their clothing.

There were five people, two men and three women in the shop all wearing variations of the same outfit, black trousers, white button-up and comfortable shoes, so Anthea assumed that they were all employees. She briefly wondered if there was a Tegan or if she had been made up or was no longer part of the shop, but the next moment answered her question.

The oldest of the lot, a woman with dark brown hair and warm, twinkling blue eyes spoke.

"Welcome to Tegan's," she said with a grin. "I'm Tegan, me or any of my staff can help you out."

Anthea smiled and pulled the coupon out of her pocket, "I have a coupon for a free dress."

The whole store erupted into excited twitters and squeals of delight.

Anthea took a step back, "I'm guessing you were warned ahead of time about me."

Tegan laughed. "You could say that. You must be Anthea, William told us all about you."

Anthea broke into a grin. "Only good things I hope."

The punk rock kid on the left grinned back, "Oh yeah, and I'm starting to think he way undersold you."

He stuck out his hand, "I'm Gwyn by the way, pleasure to meet you."

Anthea took his hand and shook it. "So what has the Bard done for you lot that would make you want to do this huge favor for him, because you can't tell me these dresses are cheap by any stretch of the imagination."

Tegan laughed again and everyone grinned. "Shakespeare is always a source of income from cinema to television to the stage," she tapped on Anthea's coupon, "but this Bard in particular is very dear to us and we'd love to help him out."

Anthea smiled. "Well that's good enough for me." She felt much more at ease about this mystery bloke now who she'd spoken to people who knew him.

She browsed the rows and rows of dresses, pausing briefly to look a couple that caught her eye. She was looking at a beautiful wine-colored dress when a thought came to her.

"What is he going to be wearing?" Anthea asked.

"His outfit is going to be made to match whatever you buy, so go off," one of the other women said, leaning on the counter with her elbows.

"Do all of you make the dresses?" Anthea asked, after pausing to look at an emerald brocade gown.

"Me, Gwyn, and Clara make the dresses," Tegan said, indicating the girl who had spoken, "while Rory and Caitlyn are designer/shopkeeps."

The remaining girl held up her hands, "I'm all thumbs, if I went anywhere near a needle I'd bleed all over the damned thing _and_ the dress."

The last bloke just shrugged, "I'm just more artsy than crafty."

Anthea browsed some more before deciding on the first dress, the wine gown. She supposed that she should have picked something more Shakespearean, but she didn't think that a dress from that time period would fit through the doors at school.

"Beautiful choice," Tegan said when Anthea showed her. "Come on, let's put it on and see if there are any adjustments to be made."

Anthea tried on the dress and it only needed a couple of quick tweaks. She could pick up the dress tomorrow and it would be ready for her.

She squealed for joy and thanked them all before dashing out to her car. She couldn't wait for prom.

* * *

Mycroft stood outside Sherlock's door a moment trying to muster up the courage to finally do this. On the other side of the door he could hear the sounds of the telly going full blast. He should just come back later and turned away. He got only three steps away when he sighed. He had put this off long enough. He turned around and knocked on the door.

"Come in!" Sherlock called.

Mycroft opened the door and Sherlock glared at him. "What do you want?"

Mycroft's courage almost failed him again. "I just wanted to talk."

Sherlock scooted back further on the bed to give Mycroft room to sit and Mycroft immediately filled the space.

"Look I–" Mycroft began but an explosion on the telly drowned him out. He picked up the remote and turned it off. "I know you hate that you have to sit home because I refuse to play by the rules," he continued.

Sherlock scoffed, "Like you care."

Mycroft pressed his lips together and sighed, "Of course I care. I am just a firm believer in doing something because you want to and not because everyone is doing it."

"Well, thanks to you and Mummy, I don't get that luxury," Sherlock sneered. "I am the only sixth former that was asked to the prom, and I can't go because you don't feel like it."

Mycroft ran his fingers over his mouth and closed his eyes. He opened them and said, "God, I don't even know how to say this."

"Wow, Mr Silver Tongue himself at a loss for words, I don't believe it," Sherlock mocked.

"I'm not perfect, Sherlock," Mycroft replied sourly.

"Could have fooled me," Sherlock muttered.

"You think I'm perfect?" Mycroft asked in confusion.

"So cool and collected and not caring about anything or anyone, so yeah," Sherlock said rolling his eyes. "In fact I always wondered what changed. You seemed to be so popular and then you gave it all it up."

Mycroft stretched out his legs on the bed and crossed them at the ankles. He put his hands on his lap and sighed. "Bertie never told you we went out, did he?"

"Bollocks," Sherlock deadpanned, drawing his knees up to his chest.

"Just before our sixth form for the summer," Mycroft replied, his tone deadly serious.

"But you hate Bertie," Sherlock tried to reason.

"I do now," Mycroft said with a bitter laugh.

"So why?"

"He was so fit," Mycroft self-mocked.

"Be serious," Sherlock chided.

"I am," Mycroft explained. "It was right after Father left and I was willing to do anything to feel. Bertie pressured me into..." and he coughed discreetly.

"All the way?" Sherlock asked in horror.

Mycroft shrugged helplessly. "Everyone was doing it and it hurt. A lot. So when I told him I wasn't ready and that I didn't want to do that again, at least not for a while, he dumped me."

Sherlock stared at him like he'd grown an extra head.

"And that's when I vowed to never do anything just because everyone else was, Sarah's party excepted," Mycroft said.

"This is the biggest, juiciest piece of gossip I've never heard, so why doesn't the whole town know?" Sherlock asked, moving to sit up on his knees.

"I may have told Bertie that if anyone found out, I would tell the whole school that he has a tiny wee." Mycroft giggled, but cleared his throat when he caught Sherlock glaring at him. He rubbed his hands on his jeans nervously.

"Why didn't you tell me this about him sooner?" Sherlock demanded.

"I tried at the party but you didn't want to listen to me then, so I figured it was best to let you form your own opinion on him," Mycroft explained.

"Does Mummy know? About what happened between you and Bertie?" Sherlock's voice took on a low growl.

"Not as such," Mycroft hedged. "I mean, she knows that we went out and then broke up but not why. She would go postal."

"But you helped her hold me hostage anyway?" Sherlock's voice was bordering on hysterical as he rose off the bed to tower of his brother. "I'm not as stupid as you think I am, I wouldn't make the same mistakes you did."

Mycroft looked up helplessly, "I guess I thought I was protecting you."

"By not letting me figure things out for myself?" Sherlock leapt off the bed and Mycroft scrambled to follow.

"There are some things that shouldn't have to be experienced if you can avoid them. You can't always trust the people you think you can rely on," Mycroft pleaded.

"I guess I learned that one, because I sure as hell can't trust you," Sherlock hissed. "Now out."

* * *

Mycroft didn't even bother forming an argument and just walked out, wincing as Sherlock slammed the door behind him.

Mycroft was on his bed staring at the ceiling and wondering where it all went wrong. He stood up and went to the window. Outside on the old tire swing, Sherlock dangled listlessly.

"God damn it," Mycroft muttered. "I can't believe I'm actually going to do this."

* * *

 **A/N: It always bothered me that Bianca and Cameron go from kissing in the car to her being pissed at him that he hadn't asked her to prom yet. But there were no scenes in between that indicated that they had even talked since the kiss, so I bridged the gap.**

 **Google French is always awful, but here's what I was trying to say**

 **Puis-je vous offrir un panais?- May I offer you a parsnip?  
Non tu ne peux pas- No you may not  
Avez-vous vu le crayon de mon oncle?- Where is my uncle's pencil  
Peut-être que ç'est dans ton cul- Maybe it's up your ass  
Ç'est bête. Quand vas-tu me demander de sortir?- This is stupid. When are you going to ask me out?  
Appelez-moi quand vous comprendrez- Call me when you understand  
Je suis tellement baisée- I am so fucked**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Whelp! Here we go, the penultimate chapter. The prom. This chapter is a bit rough emotionally, but I promised a happy ending and it'll get there. We just have hurt them first. :(**

 **It's another "long" chapter which I hope will make up for it being so long since I posted. But I do have the last chapter written, it just needs to be typed up and sent to the ever amazing Old Ping Hai. So with any luck, it should be really soon.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Mummy was in the sitting room watching some weight loss ad that she knew was fake but she still couldn't look away, when Sherlock came down the stairs in grey dress trousers, matching tie, and a blue velvet suit coat with a white button-up and pocket square.

Mummy was up out of her chair in a flash. "Sherlock!" she called out, "Darling, where do you think you are going dressed like that?"

Sherlock looked around, "Prom?"

Mummy tilted her head and hummed, "You know the rules, love. No dating and no prom unless Mycroft is going."

"Mycroft _is_ going to prom, Mummy," Sherlock explained. "You see, he found this bloke who is perfect for him, which is perfect for me because⊷" he never got to finish that sentence, because Mycroft chose that moment to breeze past them, dressed to the nines.

"Going to prom," he called as he strode for the front door, "don't wait up, I'll be home late." Mycroft opened the door and slammed it behind him.

Mummy stared at the door in shock as Sherlock flippantly flicked his hand toward the door as if to say, "See?"

Before Mummy could launch into a tirade, the doorbell rang. Sherlock looked at Mummy expectantly.

Mummy threw her hands in the air and went to answer the door. On the other side was a young man in a white suit coat with black tie and trousers.

"Mrs Holmes? John Watson," John greeted sticking out his hand.

Mummy threw open the door so Sherlock could see John, "I suppose this is for you?"

Sherlock grabbed John's outstretched hand and hauled him away from his mother, "Bye, Mummy!" he called out, closing the door behind him.

"Whoa," John said as Sherlock pulled him along. "What was all that about?"

"Mummy is having a hard time comprehending Mycroft going to the prom and by extension myself, and I would really like to be out of here before she changes her mind," Sherlock explained, stopping only when he reached John's car.

John looked back at the house and saw Mrs Holmes staring out the window at them like some horror movie villain.

"Yep," John agreed. "I can totally see that." He opened the door for Sherlock, closing it tightly behind him and hurrying to get into the driver's seat.

He resisted the urge to see if Mrs Holmes was still staring at him, because if she was, he would have completely lost his nerve.

* * *

Ten minutes later there was another knock on Mrs Holmes's front door. She frowned and went to answer it. She opened it up to reveal another young man in a tux.

"Hello, Mrs Holmes," Bertie greeted warmly, "I'm Bertie Gruner and I'm here to pick up Sherlock for prom."

Mrs Holmes started laughing and kept laughing as she slammed the door in his face.

He called up Jim, who immediately started with the fact that Bertie had lost their bet because Sherlock was there at prom with someone else.

Bertie hung up, seething. No one gets away with messing with Adelbert Baron Gruner.

He dialed another number, "Hey, you got a date to prom?" He smiled when he heard the squealing of joy on the other line. "Can you be ready in twenty minutes? Good. I'll see you then."

They were going to regret playing him for a fool.

* * *

Greg tapped the boutonniere box against the palm of his hand nervously. He didn't know if Mycroft was even going to show. When he saw John and Sherlock show up, he had started to hope, but a small part of him kept whispering that they had sneaked out and Mycroft wasn't coming.

Greg looked up at the balcony and his heart skipped a beat. Leaning on the rail looking roguishly handsome was Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft had outdone himself with his attire for the evening. The boy tended to favor perfectly tailored waistcoats, and tonight was no exception. The waistcoat and trousers were of a blue-grey. When Mycroft turned around, Greg could see that the silk back of the waistcoat was purple, which looked stunning against the charcoal grey of the boy's button-up shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and showed off the bangles and leather bracelets around his thin pale wrists.

Greg swallowed against the dryness of his mouth. He had been severely outclassed. Greg had worn a simple and classic black tux, but without a tie. His head was telling him to run away. Run away before Mycroft spotted him and sneered at his basic attempt at dressing up. His heart was telling him that if he so much as moved, it would burst.

His heart won by default because without Greg realizing it, Mycroft had come to stand in front of him.

"You look nice," Mycroft murmured. "Where did you manage to find a tux at such short notice?"

Once Greg found his tongue he chuckled and lifted the lapel of the suit jacket, "What, this old thing? It was just something I had lying around."

Mycroft raised a questioning eyebrow but didn't voice his disbelief out loud.

"What about you?" Greg said pointing at him, "You look absolutely fantastic."

Mycroft blushed, "Oh you know, it was just something I had, lying around."

Greg flashed Mycroft a smile and then bit his lip as the band started playing.

Mycroft looked toward the stage in shock and amusement. "Vauxhall Cross?" He was trying to contain his excitement but it was spilling out.

Greg's smile turned into a grin. "I called in my favor with my dad. He's apparently friends with the drummer."

Mycroft threw his arms around Greg and kissed him soundly.

Their kiss was interrupted by Anthea's frantic squeal of frustration.

They broke off the kiss and turned to her.

She looked at them in expectation, but when they gave her blank looks, she rolled her eyes. "Have you seen him?" She had completely forgotten that she hadn't told anyone she was coming to prom.

"Who?" Mycroft asked.

"Will," she replied. Mycroft just blinked at her. "Will Shakespeare?"

Mycroft wilted a bit, "Please tell me you haven't gone completely mad?"

Anthea glared at him, "He asked me to meet him here tonight. He said that he would be holding a white rose."

Greg decided to end her misery and pointed up at the stage where the band was playing a popular song about Romeo and Juliet. Standing next to the lead singer was Mike, holding the white rose Anthea was looking for.

Mike walked slowly down the steps from the stage to the floor and cheer went up as Mike and Anthea met in the middle.

"All the good love songs are about Romeo and Juliet even though they were a tragedy, I couldn't find any about the happy ones," Mike complained.

Anthea put her arms around his neck, "At least you tried."

As they slowly danced off, Mycroft watched them, amused. He turned to Greg and raised an eyebrow. "You had a hand in that, didn't you?"

Greg put his hands up, "I claim no involvement, merely foreknowledge it was taking place."

Mycroft eyed him warily but elected to leave it alone, Anthea was happy and that was all that really mattered.

* * *

Sherlock excused himself from John when they got to prom because he really needed to use the loo. On his way out he ran into Sally coming out of the girls' bathroom.

"Sally?" Sherlock asked in surprise.

Sally looked down her nose at him, "What? Did you think that you were the _only_ 6th former that got asked to prom?"

Sherlock looked at her quizzically. "No, only that I thought you'd tell me if you had."

"Bertie picked me up after _you_ left him hanging," Sally said smugly.

"You can have him," Sherlock assured her.

"He was only interested in you because he had a bet going with Jim that he would deflower you tonight," Sally said, laying it on as thick as she could.

Sherlock let out a harsh laugh. "He would have lost even if he wasn't as interesting as plain toast. I wouldn't spread my legs for him even if he paid me."

Sally rolled her eyes, "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Princess."

As Sherlock watched her walk off a horrible thought descended. "Oh shit."

He had to find Mycroft before Bertie did, otherwise this night might go up in smoke. Or worse, completely set the place on fire.

* * *

Greg and Mycroft were dancing to the music when Greg whispered in his ear, "I'm coming back to polo."

Mycroft lifted his head off Greg's shoulder from where it had rested, "What?"

"I talked to my mum and it took a lot of convincing from Mrs Hudson and Prof Smallwood, but when my mum heard 'free-ride' and 'choice of universities,' it was pretty much smooth sailing from there."

Mycroft's face lit up and he grinned, "That is fantastic." He went in for a kiss but as their lips almost touched, Greg got yanked away.

He whirled around and shouted, "Hey!" He stopped cold when he saw it was Bertie.

Bertie's lip curled in anger and disgust, "When I pay someone to take out someone's older brother so I can date them, then I best get to date them. Not have them show up to prom with some army brat."

Mycroft grabbed Greg's arm, "Excuse me?"

Greg closed his eyes, he wanted to reassure Mycroft that this wasn't what it looked like, but it really was. So he ignored the other boy and opened his eyes to glare at Bertie. "Sherlock is a _person_ , not a thing. And he decides who he goes to prom with. He picked John, so back the fuck off."

"So all this was just to get Sherlock and John together?" Mycroft choked out. "You didn't care about me at all, did you?"

Bertie scoffed, "Like anyone would want to go out with you without severe compensation." He laughed and walked off. Mission accomplished.

Greg turned to Mycroft and the devastation he saw on the other boy's face was like a physical pain in Greg's chest.

"Of course I do," Greg implored. "It wasn't just about the money."

"Was any of it real?" Mycroft asked, tears streaming down his face.

Greg reached out to wipe them away but Mycroft slapped him away.

"How can I trust you?" Mycroft asked. He squeezed his eyes closed and opened them slowly. "Why did I think I could?" He ran off, Greg losing him almost immediately in the crowd. As he went up on his toes to see if he could see over the heads of the other students, he spotted Sherlock.

Sherlock was stricken, but Greg didn't care. He walked up to the younger boy, and as he shouldered past, he hissed, "I hope it was worth it."

* * *

Sherlock wasn't the only one in the sea of students who knew Mycroft who saw what went down. Mike and Anthea had been dancing nearby.

Anthea stepped away from Mike and folded her arms. "All right, spill. Because I know you know."

Mike sighed and did just that. After she had heard it all, she let out a sigh of her own.

"Mycroft is an idiot if he thinks that Greg doesn't have genuine feelings for him, but then he's been burned before."

Mike took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So what do we do?" Bertie hadn't just ruined Mycroft and Greg's evening, but Mike's too. And if Bertie had scorched their evening, Mike was willing to bet that he had started by ruining Sherlock and John's.

"I need to find John and talk to Bertie before something worse happens tonight," Mike sighed. He put his glasses back on. But before he could lower his hands, Anthea placed a a kiss on his lips.

"Be quick, I have a beautiful dress on and have no intention of letting it go to waste," she explained.

Mike grinned. "On it!" Then he pulled out his phone, dialing John to find out where he was.

Anthea sighed. Time to switch to best friend mode, she had a Mycroft to talk down. She pulled her phone out of one of the pockets that she put in the dress when she had it made.

"Hey, Myc," she said when he answered. "I saw everything, you want to talk?"

* * *

"John!" Mike called out when he spotted his friend standing by the front doors.

"Hey," John said turning around. "It sounded urgent."

"The shitith hittith the fan," Mike said.

John closed his eyes and opened them slowly. "I thought it might have done when I saw Greg tear out of here looking like murder."

"We need to find Bertie," Mike explained.

"That's easy enough," John said, pointing to a large crowd of people that had Bertie in its center.

Mike pushed through the crowd, "Bertie, my mate, my pal, you can't just go around–"

"Shut it, Stamford," Bertie growled and pushed him to the floor. The people that had been gathering around Bertie suddenly stopped all conversation.

John just glared at Bertie and went to go give Mike a hand up.

"This is all on you, Watson," Bertie goaded. "You and that cunt."

John shook his head and turned to Bertie, "All right, that's _enough_."

Bertie took a swing and nailed John right in the jaw. John fell to the floor and Bertie yelled, "Come on!"

The crowd was shifting nervously, they had started to wonder if Bertie had gone mad.

Someone tapped on Bertie's shoulder and turned around. A fist hit him in the nose.

Bertie grabbed his nose and looked up to see Sherlock standing there. "Shit, Sherlock, you _know_ I'm filming that nose spray ad tomorrow."

"That was for making my date bleed," Sherlock snarled and then hit him again in the nose. "That's for my brother." And then he kneed Bertie between his legs. "And _that_ is for me."

Bertie doubled over and Sherlock gently nudged him, causing him to fall to the ground. Mike and Sherlock helped John to his feet.

"Sherlock," John breathed happily. "That was amazing."

Sherlock smiled and just replied, "Thanks!"

A cheer went up and Bertie fought his way to his feet, but was ignored as the crowd took up the chant, "Kiss, kiss!"

John and Sherlock just shrugged and went for it. Bertie limped away, no one caring about him at all.

* * *

 **I already have the next story written, it just needs to be typed up. I don't know how long it is, so it might be in chapters, it might not. I like to write at work but due to some absolutely silly rules, I can't have paper at my desk. Which means that stories that require a shit ton of notes (fusions like this story in particular) can't be worked at anywhere but home. Which has its own distractions, like the sweetest little boy who just turned 6. So I write up headcannons for other shows like "Lucifer" and "Good Omens". Or story ideas that I would love to write. Or in this case a whole story which got completely out of hand and I finished it.**

 **"The Key to the Castle in the Air"- struggling writer John hates the stuck up prick that comes to the bookshop he works in every morning. When John's book is picked up by Shercroft Publishing he is sent out to Sussex to go over the book. But when Mycroft has to rush off, it is up to little brother, Sherlock to finish the meeting with John. That self-same prick that drives John up the wall.**

 **So then the question becomes, what should I work on next? I have several ideas and this is your chance to chime in with what you'd like to see me do next. So post in the comments with which one of these stories you'd like to see after the author AU. They are all Johnlock.**

 **1- Painted Smiles- John and Sherlock were once a comedy duo like Laurel and Hardy or Abbott and Costello, but it's been a long time since they broke up. On the night they are to be award for their contribution to comedy, some things come to light that blow the lid off their relationship. But is it too late for them?  
2- Soldier On!- Queer Eye fusion- Sherlock Holmes is part of the Brit Fab Five going to help "straight" guy John Watson propose to his long time girlfriend. But when John admits he's bi, it's up to the Fab Five to get John to come out to his friends, and maybe fall in love with one of their own.  
3- My Love Written on Your Skin- Soulmate/tattoo AU. Soulmates get tattoos on their skin for every major life their soulmate has, but not everyone has a soulmate. These are called Blanks and are shunned. Sherlock is one of these, but his life is on John's skin. Is it as one way as John fears, or is Sherlock more than meets the eye?  
4- Curses!- Beauty and the Beast AU- in a world of shapeshifters and magic users, there are witches that go around cursing indiscriminately and there are Curse Breakers and Curse Finders who go around trying to undo the damage they cause. John and Mary have been a Breaker/Finder duo for years, but all that changes when they are sent to break the curse of Sherlock, a young boy, now a man turned into a beast. And time is running out.**

 **So let me know in the comments which one you think I should do next and I'll let you know in the chapter which one it is. :D**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Hello, my lovies. Here it is the last chapter. After almost 2 years this story has finally reached its end. I want to thank all of you who have stayed with me through it all. The tears, the laughs.**

 **I held on to this chapter in hopes of getting more people to vote. But alas, I only got three on both sites. So by the sheer fact there were so few votes, the winner is Curses! The beauty and the beast AU. Have no fear, I will get around to writing all of them, I just hope it won't take two years.**

 **I haven't started typing up my other story yet because I found out that I have cubital tunnel syndrome. Which is like carpal tunnel syndrome but instead of it being in the wrist, it comes from the elbow. So my left hand is super weak, and even typing this up aches, so... yeah. It's going to be place on hold until I get better. Which sucks.**

* * *

Bertie had only limped a few feet when he came face to face with Sally. Or rather face to stomach, considering how bent over he still was.

"Sally!" Bertie said, looking up at her as if he finally found _someone_ who would care that that cunt Sherlock kneed him the bollocks.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asked, looking down and holding her hands up.

"That cunt Sherlock hit me and then he–" Bertie moaned.

"Yeah, okay," Sally said, stopping him. "Let's get you someplace to sit and some ice."

She led him over to a few nearby chairs and then went to get some ice. She carefully dodged teachers and staff alike, not wanting to have to explain what the ice was for.

When she got back she handed it to Bertie, who immediately put it on his crotch.

"Uh," Sally pointed out, "that was for your nose."

"This is more important than my nose!" he bellowed.

She raised her hands in surrender. "Fine. So why did Sherlock deck you?"

"That cunt–"

Sally cut him off again, "Maybe without using that word."

He glared up at her, "Fine. He hit me because I hit John. And then he said something about Mycroft and him and it didn't make sense!"

Sally covered her mouth but not before a giggle escaped.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, sorry," Sally said trying to hide her smile. "It's just that a little tenth year kicked the shit out of a sixth former."

"Oh ha ha," Bertie deadpanned.

* * *

Anthea burst through the cheering crowd and turned to Mike, "What happened? I just saw Bertie limp off."

Mike laughed and told her what Sherlock had done.

Anthea nodded, impressed. "I didn't think he had it in him."

When John and Sherlock finished their kiss, they turned to Anthea and Mike.

"Have you talked to Mycroft?" Sherlock asked Anthea. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine. He was just in the boys' bathroom having a good cry."

Sherlock sighed with relief.

"Has anyone seen Greg?" John asked.

When everyone shook their heads no, Mike pulled out his phone and called Greg's number.

Finally after the fifth attempt Greg responded with "Piss off."

"Wait!" Mike called. "Don't hang up!"

Greg sighed, "What part of 'piss off' did you not understand?"

"Where are you?" Mike asked, his voice heavy with worry.

Greg paused for a moment and then sighed again, "I'm out at the bleachers having a smoke for the first time in weeks."

"Hold tight, you're in no fit state to drive yourself home," Mike said. "One of us will take you home, okay?"

Greg hummed his agreement and disconnected the line.

"Right," Mike said after explaining what Greg said to the others, "I think Anthea and I should see to Mycroft and you and Sherlock should see to Greg, because you know Mycroft might not want to um...see Sherlock right now."

Sherlock scoffed. "Greg doesn't want to see me, either."

Mike looked at Anthea for help. "Fine, Mike will take Sherlock home, I'll see to Mycroft and John can see to Greg."

Sherlock looked down at his toes and Mike tried to pull his arm, but Sherlock shrugged him off.

"Hey, come on, Sherlock," Mike said. "Let me get you home."

"I don't want to," he murmured.

"You don't want to go home?" Mike asked, frustrated.

"I–I–" Sherlock stammered and twisted his hands together. John frowned and took one of his hands.

"I know that this is all my fault and I really should just go home," Sherlock whispered. "But I haven't got to dance with John once and I–" he gulped and looked into John's eyes. "I really, really wanted to."

"Oh," came the collective gasp.

"Sorry." Sherlock could feel tears welling up and bit his bottom lip to keep them from coming.

Anthea cocked her head to the side. "Right, new plan." She put her hands on her hips. "Bertie Gruner is not going to ruin this night for all of us. John will take Greg home or wherever he wants to go and come back here to finish prom with Sherlock. Mike and I will go see what Mycroft wants to do, take him home if that's what he wants and then come back and enjoy the rest of the night."

Sherlock looked at her and smiled the sweetest smile. He mouthed 'thank you' and then gave John's hand a squeeze."I'll go have some punch and try to calm down while I wait, shall I?"

John smiled up at Sherlock. "That sounds like a good idea. I'll be back soon."

* * *

John came back and Sherlock had his dance. They danced really slow, and Sherlock held on for dear life. When he started this, he was so sure that Mycroft and Mummy had been wrong, that the world wasn't as bad as they had made it out to be. But he had gotten his taste of cruelty and it hurt.

Dancing with John seemed to help a little. He sighed. Sherlock knew what would go the furthest in helping the hurt lessen. He had to apologize. Not to Mummy, because her ideas of never dating were still outrageous. But to Mycroft. And Mycroft didn't deserve what happened to him.

Mycroft was sitting on a bench watching the couples dance and laugh. He knew he should have gone home, but the thought of facing his mother again after another terrible breakup was too embarrassing. So he stayed. He drank punch, danced to the fast songs, and sat out for the slow ones. Because despite everything, Vauxhall Cross was still his favorite band.

A shadow crossed over him and he looked up to see Sherlock standing nervously above him.

"May I sit?" Sherlock asked, indicating the other half of the bench.

"No one is stopping you," Mycroft said flippantly.

Sherlock sat down and gripped the edge of the bench with both hands. "I just wanted to say sorry."

Mycroft cocked his head to the side. "Why?" After watching Sherlock beat the hell out of Bertie, Mycroft couldn't see any reason for him to apologize.

Sherlock bit his lower lip. "I may have had a hand in Greg dating you?"

"What!" Mycroft said, trying to leap to his feet, but Sherlock held him down.

"I just wanted to date too, but I honestly thought they were just trying to set you up with him. I didn't know about Bertie and everything."

Mycroft sat down and thought about it. "I guess it just hurts that he would do that."

Sherlock didn't need to ask who _he_ was. "For what it's worth, I seriously believed that Greg was interested in you."

Mycroft shrugged. "That's what Anthea said. But I guess he had us all fooled."

They were silent for a few moments before Mycroft spoke up, "When we get home, I'll have Mummy lift the ban on dating."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not important right now."

Mycroft took Sherlock's hand. "You were right, you should be able to make your own decisions."

Sherlock gave it a squeeze. "And you were right about people being awful. Sally wasn't really my friend and Bertie had a bet with Jim that he'd fuck me."

Mycroft's eyes went wide. "I'm sorry."

They hugged and held on to each other, until Anthea found them like that a while later.

* * *

Mycroft sat on the front porch, writing in a notebook and chewing haphazardly on the biro cap. He scratched out the most recent line and went back to chewing on the cap.

He felt a soft hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Sherlock and John standing there.

"Hey," Sherlock greeted. "We were going to go sailing, you wanna come?"

Mycroft shook his head and pointed at the paper, "I have to do this, but you two go and have fun."

Sherlock gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and he and John left. As Sherlock was getting into John's car, Mummy came out and sat down next to Mycroft.

"Where's your brother going?" Mummy asked curiously.

Mycroft grinned up at his mother, "Oh you know, just a drug den orgy. With lots of drugs and sex. Lots!"

Mummy glared back at him. "Oh very funny, dear." She folded her hands on her lap and smiled. "So how was prom? Was it fun?"

Mycroft grimaced. "There were parts that weren't completely terrible."

"Oh? Like what?" Mummy was curious. She was finally able to pin down one of her children about last night, as Sherlock had been deliberately dodging her all morning.

"Like the part where Sherlock beat the hell out Bertie Gruner," Mycroft said proudly.

Mummy tilted her head to the side and asked coolly, "Really?"

"What?" Mycroft asked defensively. "Worried I might be rubbing off on him?"

Mummy chuckled. "No, darling. Impressed."

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out.

"You know, parents don't like it when they have to admit that they need to let their children make their own decisions. Sherlock at least lets me play a couple of rounds, but you've had me on the bench for years."

Mycroft opened his mouth again, this time to protest, but Mummy held up her hand.

"It's all right, darling. I understand, which is why when you go to Oxford, I hope you'll let me at least cheer for you on the bandstand."

Mycroft paused and then let out a strangled, "When?"

"Oh, dear! I hope you haven't changed your mind, I've already sent them the check for the first semester."

Mycroft let out a sound that could only be described as a squeal and hugged his mother. "Thank you, Mummy!"

She hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek as she stroked his back.

* * *

Mr Lyons stood up in front of the class and smiled out at them. "All right, I hope everyone has had the time to finish their poems. Well, except Mr Gruner here, who has an excuse." Everyone turned to look at Bertie who was wearing dark glasses as he sank lower in his seat.

"All right, Neo. Glasses off," Mr Lyons barked.

Bertie hesitantly removed the glasses to reveal a black eye and a butterfly plaster on his nose.

"Now that's been taken care of," Mr Lyons continued, "who is brave enough to read theirs out loud?"

The whole class remained silent. Even Greg, who rarely made it class, ducked his head and hoped Mr Lyons wouldn't call him. Mycroft saw Greg shy away and made a decision.

He raised his hand. "I will."

Mr Lyons blinked, but motioned for him to come up. As he moved out of the way to let Mycroft take center stage, he muttered to himself, "God help us all."

Mycroft took a deep breath and opened the notebook to the right page. Greg watched, face pinched in distress.

"I hate the way you talk to me

and the way you cut your hair

I hate the way you drive my car

I hate the way you stare

I hate your big dumb combat boots–"

Mycroft giggled the last line as he neared hysterics, but he cleared his throat and pressed on.

"And the way you read my mind

I hate you so much it makes me sick

You even make me rhyme.

I hate it, I hate the way you're always right

I hate it when you lie"

Mycroft's voice cracked and he was forced to stop a moment before he could go on. Greg held his clasped hands to his face, elbows resting on the desk and tried to fight back his own tears.

"I hate it when you make me laugh

Even worse when you make me cry–"

Mycroft broke and tears started streaming down his face and he looked away from Greg.

"I hate it when you're not around

And the fact that you don't call.

But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you

Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all."

Mycroft didn't know what to do with himself. He couldn't move, it was like he was welded to the spot. It took Mr Lyons gently touching his arm and telling him to go wash up in the loo and to come back when he was ready. Mycroft nodded and ran out the door, failing to notice the tears that had slid down Greg's face.

When the classroom door slammed shut, Greg coughed and discreetly wiped away his tears. He didn't even hear Mr Lyons call for their poems. He was struck by the raw emotion and that Mycroft had dared everything just so that he could hear it.

There was a sharp poke in his side and turned around. The girl behind him hissed, "Take up your poem!"

He looked back up at the front of the classroom where Mr Lyons was tapping his foot impatiently. It was clear from the look on his face that he had been calling Greg for some time.

Greg pulled out his poem and took it up to the front.

Mr Lyons grabbed his arm just before he turned back around to his desk. "I don't know what's going on between you, but that was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard in all my years of teaching. Make it up to him. But maybe not as dramatic as last time, yeah?"

Greg smiled. He had no intention of heading to detention again and nodded his agreement.

* * *

Greg was noticeably absent from the rest of his classes. Mike and John didn't even see him at lunch. By then it had spread throughout the whole school what had happened at prom and Mycroft's poem. John chuckled at some of the rumors that were flying around, but it was distressing that Greg had vanished. And worse, he wasn't taking anyone's calls.

Sherlock knew the one call he would take, but Mycroft deserved to sit this one out.

Mycroft was disappointed that Greg had been avoiding him all day. But he guessed it was to be expected. Boys like Greg would have been embarrassed by a poem like that.

He sighed and went out to his car. When he got within a few feet of it, he pulled up short. Sitting in the passenger seat was the guitar he had been eyeing for a long time. He bent down to look at it and gasped. It was real.

He stood up to find Greg on the other side of the car, arms resting on the hood of the car.

"Did you buy this for me?" Mycroft asked, incredulous.

Greg nodded. "Yeah, you see I had all this extra money from being paid to take out this gorgeous bloke. But I made a mistake."

Mycroft came around to Greg's side of the car, "What would that be?"

"I fell in love with him," Greg said.

"Really?" Mycroft asked, moving in close.

"Yeah," Greg breathed and suddenly he couldn't breathe at all. Mycroft was kissing him. He sighed and put his arms around him.

When Mycroft broke off the kiss, Greg was practically panting.

Mycroft smiled at him, "You know, you can't go around buying me guitars every time I'm pissed at you."

Greg huffed out a laugh. "No, of course not. What would you do with that many guitars? No, I'll buy you a drum kit, a keyboard, a bass, and if you're really, really lucky, maybe someday a tambourine."

Mycroft laughed and then dived in for another kiss.


End file.
